Linda Roorda

Somewhere deep down inside, each one of us has regrets… for something we said… something we did… something we did not do or say… and we long to go back to do it all over again… only better this time. But we can’t go back. What’s done is done. It’s marked in indelible ink on the pages of time. Yet, there is One who offers forgiveness and peace when we bare our soul to Him of hurts and pains… as we take responsibility and ownership of our mistakes and sins. For years, my errors festered with regrets. A while ago, knowing it was time I did something about it, there were a few friends to whom I wrote those long-overdue apologies. I’m so thankful for their forgiveness, a loving grace on their part. And, like our Lord’s loving forgiveness, those regrets are replaced with joy as our slates are wiped clean, enabling us to start fresh, to move forward without looking back to rue the past… as the Lord renews our hearts. Writing this poem, I was reminded that Jesus had said, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God.” (Luke 9:62 NIV) An old-fashioned plow pulled by a team of oxen or horses is kept straight by the farmer holding the reins and plow handles. If he looks back to where he’s been, he can’t guide the team and the rows will become ever more crooked. But, if the farmer keeps his eyes focused ahead, aiming for a point in the distance, he guides the team through the reins as he handles the plow, and his rows stay straight. Just like driving today’s tractor or car – we tend to stray from our lane if we look backwards or all around. Our eyes need to remain focused on what lies ahead. And so it is in our daily life. If we keep looking back to where we’ve been and to the mistakes we’ve made, we aren’t going to be much good to anyone else, let alone ourselves. It’s not helpful to live with constant regrets… it’s far better to take what we’ve learned and grow from our mistakes – once we’ve fully confessed them and asked for forgiveness, of course. For, with backward gazing, we may find we begin to sink like Peter when he took his eyes off the Lord as he looked in fear at the deep water he was walking on. (Matthew 24:22-34) I like the image my late husband had shared as we prayed together during a time of stress. Ed described it as putting our plow into the furrow while focusing on the end of the row where Jesus stands waiting, holding out his hands. As long as we keep our eyes focused ahead, and follow the Lord and His guiding Word, our life’s path will be straight. Easier said than done at times though, isn’t it? May God bless each of us with His peace as we strive for that straight row towards Him… Regrets Linda A. Roorda Sometimes alone I’ve felt abandoned Though my heart knows You still care for me. Didn’t You say to reassure I’ll never leave; I’ll never forsake? ~ Lord, hold my hand when fears abound Help me to feel Your presence near. Your love brings peace when to You I flee Contentment known as I focus on You. ~ You know who I am. You know where I’ve been. You know where I’m bound on this journey of life. You ask of me with a still small voice, I hear Your words, but don’t always heed. ~ Within the clamor and din of my world Pulled every which way from dawn until dark Voices are heard but whose shall I heed As sometimes confusion waits by the door. ~ To whom will I bow? To what give credence? So much clamors, my attention to gain. Sweet smooth flattery with enticing words, Or voice of reason, the wisdom of God? ~ When troubles come and thoughts overwhelm I can do nothing but give them to You. And in the act of giving them up You draw me near from the brink of fear. ~ Some days I wish that I could go back, Back to do over in another time To all that once was which fills with regret For knowledge gained now sees better ways. ~ Then in reaching out You touch my heart. Just as I am You accept me now. With arms open wide I’m drawn to Your side As You cleanse my soul from stains that have marred. ~ How can I thank You for all You have done? Where do I begin to tell of Your grace? With a grateful heart Your praises I sing As You bless me now with Your loving peace. ~ In looking ahead You lighten my step. I need only see the future through You. Your guiding wisdom now leads me each day On a bright new path as Your hand holds mine. ~~

I was as shocked as anyone else at last night’s happenings where our former President Trump was shot in an assassination attempt. And I thank God that his life was spared by a fraction of measurement. My heart and prayers go out to Donald Trump and his family, to the family of the innocent gentleman in the crowd who was killed, and to the two who were critically injured. We need to get back to respecting everyone, regardless of who they are. ~~ “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Unequivocally, yes, I am… yes, we are. Words defiantly spoken by Cain in response to God’s simple question, “Where is your brother Abel?” Cain knew... after all, he had just taken his brother’s life in a fit of jealous rage. Abel’s offering to God from the best of his flock had been received favorably, while Cain was told by God that if he did what was right his offering would also be accepted. Instead, jealousy and anger took over Cain’s heart… and the unthinkable murder happened. To say we love someone very much is proven false when we fail to show a genuine compassion for their pain and difficulties. With true empathy for others, we take responsibility for our own actions. We reach out in humility… we want the best for them, we are happy to see them succeed, and we respect their boundaries. True love is not about what glory we might attain in the public eye for giving aid. Rather, it’s about what we can do to give love for others in genuine humility, with no expectation of repayment. Jesus told parables to help his followers grasp the deeper meaning. He told a story about assistance by a Samaritan to an enemy, a Jew, the victim of robbery, beaten, and left for dead. A priest and Levite passed by, deeming it beneath them to assist the man. Instead, the Samaritan took the victim to be cared for until he fully recovered, paying all expenses. Jesus expressed in story form what unconditional love and mercy look like: “’Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’” (Luke 10:27) Like the Good Samarian, if we have a heart of love, we view others favorably. We essentially become our “brother’s and sister’s keeper” by understanding the difficulties they might be facing. With empathy, we feel for our friends in their struggles… we commiserate with them, feel their pain, their sorrow. We long to reach out and help in any way we can. In this, we show compassion. But we also share hope and joy by rejoicing with their blessings, even as they receive accolades and honor. Loving as we’ve been loved showers blessings upon another. It enables us to comfort someone just as we’ve been comforted in similar difficult and painful situations. As the Apostle Paul wrote in II Corinthians 1:3-4: “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.” We gain a new understanding from our own failings, with a readiness to help others in need. We share a compassion like that which we’ve felt from God in our own difficult life circumstances. For compassion embodies empathy, a type of sympathy, a sharing of the difficulties someone might be facing. And with this sense of compassion and understanding comes encouragement and hope with joy. Jan Dravecky (whose husband, Dave, left baseball following the amputation of his pitching arm due to cancer) said simply and eloquently: “God really does comfort His children – and most often He chooses to do so through the arms and legs and voices and ears and faces and tears of men and women who have been to the front lines and returned with battle scars. Someone who has ‘been there’ has the credibility and the understanding to know what it is that the person in pain is going through – the questions, the doubts, the fears. They can speak both compassionately and authoritatively because of their own experience… Have you considered how God might want to use you to comfort someone in pain?” Perhaps you’re going through too difficult a time and think you can’t possibly help anyone. As Jan continued, “…but who better to reach out with understanding, empathy and genuine concern [to those who are facing their own turmoils]?” (NIV Encouragement Bible, pg. 1546) Being our “brother’s and sister’s” keeper is said so well in what we commonly call the Golden Rule. In His Sermon on the Mount, Jesus summed up how we should love, “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you…” (Matthew 7:12a) With such love and tender kindness, we’re able to show mercy and compassion to the hurting souls in the world around us, and rejoice to see them blessed. Compassion’s Love Linda A. Roorda They understand best who have felt despair Who shoulder the hurt they turn to blessing Where tender voice calls out to the broken And carries to rest on peaceful shore. ~ For only those who’ve travelled this road The very same road that you struggle on Find compassion’s love springs from the heart With understanding and emerging hope. ~ In sharing such hope of vistas bright Where two or more can better handle The way is cleared of scattered debris, The heavy load that once overwhelmed. ~ Embracing the weary and burdened heart Tender mercies tumble down like rain Washing the wounds and depths of despair To break their hold and release the pain. ~ As compassion’s love envelopes the soul A gentle peace infuses the spirit And fills the heart with understanding To sing its song with heavenly joy. ~~

I'm so sorry to learn your cancer has spread. Sending my prayers as you go through this journey, wishing you all the very best on your road to recovery! I had breast cancer 10 years ago. Very, very thankful to my husband who insisted I go for my mammogram and "take care of yourself for a change" because I was going to cancel said exam since we were going thru extensive medical care for him and his long list of health issues, and I felt like I had no time to take care of me. Yes, folks, do those self-exams and get your mammograms!!

Oh, the countless blessings of God! He is so good to all of us in so many ways! And my heart sings in praise and thanksgiving for all that He has done in my life! Recently, I flew out to visit my daughter and her family. And I gotta tell you, they were so good to me! I don’t like flying, but the flight from ELM to DET left way more than a bit to be desired. Taking generic Dramamine, I learned the hard way it is not as effective as the real deal. So, gripping that little white bag kindly provided by the airline, and white-knuckling the armrest through dramatic turbulence, I was more than glad to deplane, yet not delighted to get on yet another plane from DET to MSP. Thankfully, the motion sickness was not as severe on that leg of the journey, but I was so very happy to land!! With the flight worsening my minor head cold to include bronchitis, I was not the energetic Grammy they expected. Despite the downside, and not being able to visit the zoo and a Native American history center Emily planned, we did stroll through St. Cloud University’s arts and craft vendor displays, watched their oldest son swim in his first competition, saw their middle son go fly a kite and made an origami crane as he told me how to fold it, drew and colored a blooming plant with their youngest son, viewed the exhibits at a local county museum, and played numerous games of checkers, magnetic chess, RackO, and Sequence when I needed the rest. I also greatly appreciated the thought my daughter gave to movie selections – Bambi, Those Calloways, and The Sound of Music! In the summer of ’65, my dad had taken me and my sister to the Clifton Theater two blocks from home in Jersey to see the double feature - Bambi and Those Calloways. Remembering only the vicious wolverine and square dance scenes from Those Calloways, I’d always wanted to see the movie again. Looking forward to April 23, 1978 when it was featured on NBC’s Sunday night Disney theater… it was with mixed emotions that I could not watch it… because we went to the hospital for Jennifer to be born early the next morning! So, thank you again, Emily, for choosing that movie for your Mom! And then she chose her and my favorite, The Sound of Music, which my dad also took me and my sister to see in Clifton in the latter 1960s. After returning home, my son and his wife and children came to visit. Going to Ithaca’s Science Center, it was a pleasure to watch the kids enjoy all the hands-on experiences! Even Grammy put her fear aside and petted the pink gecko held by a staff member. Playing games at home, or walking the gardens with me, brought shared blessings of family time. It seems that, among things we might consider minor in the overall scheme of life, are so many special blessings! Yet, we often go on our way without looking closer and being so very thankful for the “little” silver linings… reminding me of how much God loves us in all those “little” things we take for granted. From the moment we awaken until our day draws to a close, we are loved and cared for by an awesome God! Each breath we take is His gift. Each beautiful sunrise and setting sunset shines forth glorious rays upon His creation in different hues. The gift of love, the touch of a hand in comfort and peace, in joy and sorrow, the moments of special fun that we savor… these are all precious gifts from our God. For we were created that we would have a relationship with the Lord of our life. God created us with a purpose… to bring glory and honor back to Him in all that we do. For all we are, and all we will be, have come from His hand. And He showers His love upon us as He provides for our every need, blessing us richly if we but open our eyes to see and understand. Oh God, You are so good to me! You are so good to me! Linda A. Roorda Oh God, You are so good to me! You loved me ere I came to be I thank you for the life that You gave That I may live covered by mercy. ~ I praise You for the gifts You’ve given The talents hidden and openly used From blessings I see to~ those hid from view You care for me beyond ways to count. ~ I thank You for each bright sunrise As golden rays stream down upon earth And birds awaken with their songs of praise While we yawn and stretch to start a new day. ~ Be with me Lord, my prayer for this day May all the words and thoughts of my heart Bring honor to You, my strength and my shield As I align my steps on Your path. ~ Help me to keep my tongue in check When frustrations mount throughout my day May I with patience attend to my tasks And seek Your will in all that I do. ~ Prayers for my friends and family dear To keep and protect each one on their way And may they know Your love that surrounds Like a warm hug will protect and guide. ~ And when temptations sneak in unannounced Open my eyes Lord, your wisdom to see May I discern the right from the wrong To keep my feet on Your righteous path. ~ With grateful thanks I now close my day You covered my needs in blessings poured out With a joyful heart for Your care of me Rejoicing in peace, contented am I. ~~

And I can agree with that idea - women can serve well behind the scenes, not in battle.

Thanks for understanding my position, Chris. I do understand all the above, and am very thankful for women who have served in the military in various roles, including women who have fought in major wars of our nation's history. I just don't think they should be drafted to the battlefield for many reasons. But one of my grandfather's sisters served in a behind-the-scenes role during WWII, daughter of another of his sisters is a retired Colonel at West Point; my father served his two years in the Army, ending service at Ft. Greely, Alaska; my brother #1 served 20 years in the Navy, in Gulf War on a ship's tender out to sea, his daughter was in a leadership role in the Marines until she got a stress fracture with a medical discharge, brother #3 was Valedictorian of a large high school in Marshall, TX, traded places with the salutatorian as he was appointed to West Point but his teenage Osgood-Schlatter's came back full force from the long marches and he had to take a medical discharge. Brother #2 has told me in the past that if he were in the military, his protective instincts toward women would come out on the battlefield rather than focusing more closely on battle strategies... Thanks again for accepting my perspective.

Guess I'm too conservative and may hear backlash, but I do not now and never did, even in the 1970s during or after high school, believe women should be drafted. But, then, I also never fell in line with the failed mid-1970s Equal Rights Amendment to the U.S. Constitution movement... but that's my personal opinion. My husband was exempt from the draft due to his legal blindness in his only viable eye, and my son would not have qualified due to a congenital heart abnormality tho he wanted to join his friends who signed up for military service after high school graduation.

Sometimes we all need those days of doing a lot of nothing, Chris!! Glad you enjoyed it! School's almost done on this side of the hills too, ending for students with Monday and Tuesday being fun half days, and Wed being the 8 am staff breakfast meeting. I have totally enjoyed the last several months in a long-term sub position. These kids grow on your heart 🙂 And what brings me here to TTL? Just checking out the other articles and chatter! Enjoy a great evening folks!

The old red barn stood tall on an open flat, alone against the gray sky, testament to a long life. It had weathered countless storms, looking a tad bit worn… another great photo by my childhood friend's husband. And once again, the picture painted a thousand words that raced through my thoughts. For some time now, I’ve felt like writer’s block has taken away my ability to write reflections, never mind the poems where words used to flow through my fingers almost faster than I could write or type. When the words stopped flowing, I knew the poem was complete. I would literally feel drained… because those words came from the depths of my soul, often a cathartic poem which healed emotional wounds long embedded deep. And perhaps that’s the point… as God reaches out to each of us, maybe there comes a time when healing is complete from a time and place long ago. After my husband passed away last year, I thought about the brevity of life… now facing my own “autumn/winter” phase of life’s four seasons. Spring is, after all, a beginning, the gift of new life and growth, the carefree days of youth… then summer comes along and we’re in our prime with busy days where all is well with us and the world around, learning and yearning through the passage of time…. as autumn slowly engulfs us in its changes, with colorful harvesting of awards and rewards, reaping the benefits of what we had begun… while winter overtakes us unannounced, bringing a cold and quiet idleness of hands and feet, leaving us breathless to keep up with an ever-changing world which seemingly has no use for our skills or input… though often we ably repurpose our days and ways to assist another soul on their journey to success… as forever onward we go. And if you were one of those to whom Ed opened his heart, you were blessed. He shared his life stories with me over the years, but it was never enough. So, in honor of his heavenly birthday on Tuesday the 25th, I’m sharing a few memories of his life. A premature twin by two months, his twin Peter died at two days, being larger at 5 lbs. But at 3-1/2 lbs, Ed was placed in an incubator for a month with pure oxygen which damaged his eyes – the right eye was totally blind while the left eye had very limited vision at 20/200 with corrective lenses. He got his first glasses at about age 2, one of 8 children who had some vision among about 2000 seen at Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center in New York City with this type of oxygen-related retinal damage, the same cause of Stevie Wonder's blindness. He loved farming from the time he could walk. He was also apparently a little instigator of a few sticky situations he and his brother got themselves into… like tying a dog to a fence the way they’d seen calves tied up, except the dog was not happy about it and barked profusely as they ran crying to their Dad. He also had a cat who would wait for him to get off the bus at the end of their long farm driveway. The cat would jump onto his shoulders and enjoy a ride back to the house. Ed used to throw his art papers into a ditch, but his sister saw them, and brought them home to their Mom to appreciate as all Moms do. Ed learned to drive tractor at a very young age, a John Deere 520. Knowing his vision was not good, he was always extra cautious around machinery to prevent a terrible accident. That, however, did not keep him from having accidents – like after the first day of kindergarten, he fell with a glass jar in his hand, cutting his hand badly, requiring many sutures to close the large gash leaving quite the scar, or playing on top of the idle hay baler, falling off and breaking his wrist. Oh, the fun of little boys! He needed weekly allergy shots for “just about everything” as Ed put it. He knew when it was time for his next shot, perhaps the only kid who looked forward to shots because he’d feel better afterward. Being stoic was just who he was. I remember when he injured a finger with the nail retaining a blood blister underneath, and the pain he had… so, he simply put a fine bit into the drill and made a hole which relieved the pressure by releasing the blood. He insisted on doing whatever he could for as long as possible to be like everyone else. He tried to be there for me and our children as best he could. He loved to read to them when he’d come in from barn chores at night, giving us all his sound advice as needed, and how we miss his big snugging hugs. Like my friend Elaine said when Ed passed away, we lost his wealth of knowledge. We not only lost his wit and wisdom, but the kind and gentle peaceable man that he was, and a tremendous knowledge that he kept tucked away and shared now ‘n then... because he was not a big talker. Especially as he became sicker, it was almost too much effort for him to make steady conversation. But it was apparently difficult for some folks to understand this when he was so ill. Recently celebrating Father’s Day, that barn seemed to be the perfect illustration of my husband Ed’s character over the years. In fact, the day I saw the photo, and wrote this poem in a couple hours in 2017, I was waiting to bring him home from yet another hospitalization. Stalwart and steadfast, he had remained standing no matter what life sent his way, a true gentle giant. And like that barn, he’d faced many storms head on, never bending or collapsing as the winds attempted to shake his foundation. He remained firm and resolute with his faith in our Lord, resting secure in God’s provision and love, a pillar of strength for our family. Yet, it had not been easy. There had been some serious storms that sent waves crashing against him… and against us as a couple. Despite some plain old-fashioned trials, dashed hopes causing great disappointments, the loss of a daughter, and his losses of sight, physical strength and ability, he overcame those trials with an inner strength and peace that came from his strong faith in our Lord. For it was God’s wisdom gifted to Ed which saw him through as he grew up, married, helped raise our children, and changed careers from farming to office assistant. Later, facing a continued ebbing of strength and ability with the progression of permanent muscle damage caused by statin/cholesterol drugs, and worsening congestive heart failure, we began discussing what we should do when he could no longer function and get around on his own. In all honesty, we didn’t know what our options would be in the not-so-distant future. We were facing new frontiers. And then, in late 2022, Ed’s health deteriorated even more as he succumbed to several health issues magnified by Covid-19, leaving this world on God’s timeline in January 2023. Still, through each difficulty, his and our faith grew stronger, for we’d learned that “[we] can do all things through [Christ] who strengthens [us]” (Philippians 4:13) As I’ve said many times before, and I often need reminding of, James 1:2-4 puts it so well even though we don’t want to welcome one more difficult challenge. “Consider it pure joy my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, lacking nothing.” Being “strong in the Lord and in His mighty power” (Ephesians 6:10-13) is the foundation on which we survive great storms and come out standing. (Proverbs 10:25) Just like that barn in Hugh’s photo, if we have a firm foundation on the solid rock (faith in our Savior Jesus Christ), weathered by time (experience and wisdom), the structure (our character) will stand tall… and prove stalwart and unwavering. The Stalwart Linda A. Roorda Stalwart and stoic through the test of time Facing the world to weather life’s storms Meeting head on whatever befalls Humbly proclaiming, steadfast I stand. ~ Bringing together nature’s harmony Weathered and worn, reliably true Dependably there to meet others’ needs Asking for nothing but structural care. ~ Like the pioneers who settled this land And carved their place from wilderness wild, Weathered by nature midst elements raw They kept life sheltered from all threats and harm. ~ Without proper care, wood planks become warped Foundations fail without wisdom’s base. Oh, can’t you see! The meaning is clear! How like old barns are patriarchs wise. ~ Learning through hardship true wisdom is gained Taking a stand for what matters most, Sometimes enduring alone in the crowd Serene and secure midst turmoil and storm. ~ God bless the stalwart, unwavering friend Who braves the path no matter the storm. Of foe unafraid, on wisdom standing Steadfast and loyal with comforting peace. ~~

Father’s Day… a time to remember the dads we treasure. They’ve taught us well in the ways of life. I remember a lot about my dad. In fact, it would be fair to say that I had put him on a pedestal while growing up… not a wise placement for anyone. But it seems he could do anything and everything, a jack-of-all-trades, almost perfect in my little girl eyes. Though none of us can measure up all the time, there is One who is perfect… who forgives all our failings… our heavenly Father. But, yes, there is so much my Dad taught me and my five siblings, including all about the love of Jesus. As a small child on the farm, I would say, “Jesus is my best friend!” But, for a time as a teen, I forgot my childhood friend until my Dad reminded me of those words I used to say as a little girl. Oops! I loved playing board games on Sunday afternoons with my Dad, especially Scrabble. I love the challenge of this game and tend to play aggressively, perhaps because I was in tough competition with my Dad. Though I won only one game against him over those several years, it was a sweet victory knowing that I’d accomplished the win without his having given me an edge… his way of readying us for the world. He taught me honesty was the right way such that in 8th grade English class I chose to write an essay entitled “Honesty Is The Best Policy”, receiving a coveted A. Actually, I think I may have gotten writing and art abilities from him. Although he was an exceptional storyteller, perfectly imitating voice and mannerisms of various comedians, I speak best through the written word. He also had a gift for drawing with his talent for art passed on to me and my son. He loved trains, especially the old steam engines, having grown up next to the tracks in Clifton, NJ. I loved watching him as he built a passenger car for his train set, using a tweezers to handle those tiny parts. I watched him build Packard and Duesenberg model cars, and a German Focke-Wulf plane from WWII, taking us with him as he flew it using a remote-control system… until an unexpected gust of wind dove and smashed the plane into the ground. As we grew up, we loved hearing Dad tell family stories of his and our childhoods. He had a gift for telling any story in a humorous unique way, and how I long to hear them all again. I’d ask him to write them down for posterity, but he never did. When he drove truck in the 1960s through the 1990s (and later huge tractors for an Iowan farmer), he’d come home with stories from the road. He shared radio routines by Bill Cosby and southern Cajun comedians, recalling their stories and imitating accents perfectly! That was way better entertainment than TV any day! I recall a few stories of his time in the Army at Fort Greely, Alaska (1956-1957), a foreign assignment before official statehood. From 18 months to 2 years of age, I was too young to remember my six months at Delta Junction with my baby sister. But I also remember having heard how he, his best buddy Roland Neefe, and two other friends found a sunken rowboat. As it lay not far below the surface of a lake, they pulled it up, cleaned it off, and took it out to fish. It made for an interesting adventure to say the least – while they took turns fishing, the other three worked hard at bailing to keep the boat afloat! Now that’s dedicated fishermen! Fort Greely is also where he learned to drive big rigs. With someone ill, he was asked to take over in the motor pool one night. Proving he could handle backing up a trailer perfectly, the commanding officer asked where he’d learned to do that since everyone else struggled. “Backing up a manure spreader, Sir!” was his dutiful reply. They kept him in the motor pool, where he gained invaluable training for later driving 18-wheelers. He was also given a rare promotion because he took the time to thoroughly clean an office coffeepot, a skill learned from his Dutch immigrant mother who had taught him all aspects of housekeeping while growing up, like any good Dutch mother. With a general visiting Fort Greely, the coffee-making task was passed off to my Dad as no one wanted to be making coffee for a general! He didn’t complain but took pains to provide a clean urn for making fresh-percolated coffee… which greatly impressed the general. When the general asked who made the coffee, the aide who was supposed to have made it “blamed” my Dad. Instead of the feared reprimand for the typically bad-tasting coffee the office was known for, the general complimented my father on making the best cup he’d ever tasted! Turning to the senior officer, he ordered him to give my father a promotion! When we were younger, he always had time for us. When we lived in Jersey, I loved it when he took us fishing at Garret Mountain in Clifton, Lake Hopatcong and Upper Greenwood Lake. It got me out of the city and into nature where I felt at ease. And, though I could never bring myself to touch those worms (still can’t!), let alone put them on a hook, and never did catch “the big one,” it was the quality time with our Dad that meant so much to us kids. As a tomboy, I especially enjoyed working outside with my Dad whether it was in the barn learning to care for the animals, in the huge vegetable gardens, or traipsing the fields and woods to hunt rabbits and deer. That love just naturally transferred to enjoying time spent working alongside my husband in the barn or in the yard, and growing and weeding gardens of my own. As we grew older, we teens were often in our own little world yet I still adored my Dad. He listened and gave sound advice. I recall the day he didn’t go to work, taking me instead for a drive to discuss a problem I was dealing with. At times though, I wasn’t ready to listen to him because, as life moved on, his anger took control and he wasn’t always there for us as a family, causing division with his divorce by expecting full support for his side. No parent in a divorce situation should ever do that their children. But I treasure our renewed relationship later in life. With apologies for my own errors as a teen, I heard his sadness as I expressed how family dysfunction affected all of us, and he understood my saying I/we all had needed him more than he realized when he was on the road for 2-4 weeks at a time. I appreciated his compliments on my writing for a local newspaper, my own blogs, publishing genealogy research in a nationally recognized journal (The New York Genealogical & Biographical Record), and for how well I raised my family and took care of my Mom, even saying he’d never realized all the difficulties I’d faced in my life. Honesty and forgiveness cleared the way for a better relationship with love expressed to both my parents. God truly takes our most difficult situations, working them for our good when we love Him, admit our errors, and make amends. My Dad’s careers changed from his love of farming, to driving a grain truck delivering feed to dairy farmers (winning top NY State Purina Feed salesman awards for 1961 and 1962), to carpentry with his Dad, a revered general contractor in northeast New Jersey, to driving an 18-wheeler hauling tanks locally and later OTR (over the road/cross country). When we lived in Clifton, NJ, he drove chemical tankers “locally” in northeast Jersey, southern New England, and New York City. What stories he brought home from his experiences! I got to ride with him only twice and wish it could have been more. But I was never so happy as when we moved back to New York on August 16, 1969! Though I hated city life, I can now look back at special memories of Clifton where I was born. As we settled into “backyard farming,” he taught me how to care for our mare, War Bugg, a granddaughter of Man O’ War, a retired Western working ranch registered Quarter Horse. One of his trucking buddies also rode the rodeo circuit and put War Bugg through her paces – she did a figure-eight so tight you’d’ve thought she’d fall over! I helped Dad build her corral and box stall in the barn, along with re-roofing and remodeling the old chicken coop for our flock. And then came the heavy-duty barn chores of bringing hay down out of the mow, hauling 50-lb bags of grain, mucking out the pens, learning to groom War Bugg and pick up her feet to clean the soft undersides, devouring books on horses and their care, dreaming of being an equine vet. I saw his deep concern when I stepped on a wasp’s nest in the haymow with 11 stings on my leg, and his gratefulness for my dousing him with a 5-gallon pail of water when a torch threatened to catch him on fire while trying to burn tent caterpillars, chuckling later that I almost drowned him! He did have a great sense of humor, which I valued in my husband Ed, too. But I also learned the hard way that running War Bugg flat out up the road and back could have killed her, hot, sweaty and lathered. Not realizing the depth of War Bugg’s Western training, I’d simply clicked my tongue and she took off like a rocket, so I let her run… on the paved road. I was scolded hard, yet taught to walk her slowly, allowing her to have only small sips of warm water till she cooled down. After riding her another time, I dismounted, tied her to the backyard light pole, and ran into the house briefly. On returning, I realized she’d pulled on and broken her bridle, standing as if still tied with reins straight down. And it was then I realized she was Western trained to be “ground tied” and to take off at the click of the tongue, very responsive to touch, the absolute best horse! I still miss her… and her gentle neighs when I put grain and hay in her feed trough. Soon enough, I got married and began a new life with my new family, while my siblings and parents scattered themselves around the U.S. Life changes, and we change with it. We learn from those childhood mistakes and grow up wiser for them. As a child, I teased Dad when he turned 30 that he was old, and that when he’d turn 50 he’d be “over the hill!” Well, Dad, guess what? Your oldest daughter reached that milestone a good ways back, and she’s still thankful to be alive and working! Giving him this writing in 2014 before he passed away April 17, 2015, his wedding anniversary with my Mom, he knew I felt blessed to have him as my Dad. Sometimes I wish I could go back and relive the childhood fun of days long ago, but I treasure those memories that linger still... and I love you, Dad! May you each be blessed with very special memories of your Dad, too! Happy Father’s Day! I Remember A Dad Linda A. Roorda I remember a dad who took me fishin’ And remember a dad who hooked my worms, Who took those hooks from fishy mouths, And showed me the country way of life. ~ A family of six, two girls and four boys Fun and trouble we shared as we grew. From farms and fields to paved avenues, Walking and biking, exploring we went. ~ I remember a time spent playing games, A dad who’d not cheat for us to win. Family and friends and holiday dinners, Lakes and farms and countryside drives. ~ Weeds were the bane of childhood fun, So ‘tween the rows we ran and we played. But as I grew and matured in age, Weeding was therapy in gardens of mine. ~ I remember a dad who thrived on farming Livestock and gardens, and teaching me how. I remember a dad who took me huntin’ Scoutin’ the fields, always alert. ~ I remember a dad who taught us more For growing up we learn by example. I remember working alongside my dad Roofing a barn and building corrals. ~ I remember a dad whose gifts were given In fairness to meet each child’s desire. I remember a dad whose wisdom we honor In memories of caring and love in small ways. ~ I remember a dad who brought us laughter With Cajun and Cosby stories retold. For blessed with a gift of retelling tales Family and childhood events he recalled. ~ I remember a dad whose time was given To help his children face life’s turmoils. Time spent together are memories treasured For things done best put family first. ~ I remember a dad who taught me more To treasure my faith in Jesus my friend. In looking to Him as Savior and Lord, Salvation by Grace, not earned by my deed. ~ As I look back to days long ago, I remember the dad I knew so well. For I miss the dad who took me fishin’ And remember the dad who taught me more. ~

Ah, a whole different generation 🙂 but I do remember the White Castle on the corner across from the Clifton Library which I frequented many many times!

OH my goodness! That's amazing! It's where I was born and lived 3 different times in between the farms. I looked at the Clifton street map online, and Fairmount is not far from Christopher Columbus Jr Hi where I went to 7th and 8th grades in the latter 1960s. My Dad graduated from there when it was Clifton Hi Sch. My grandparents' Dutch families immigrated to Kalamazoo Mich initially; my grandparents with my toddler father and my grandfather's paternal family moved after the depression started to Luddington Ave in Clifton, also not far from Christopher Columbus, and my dad lived on both ends of Getty Ave growing up. I lived on Hepburn with my grandparents when my dad was in the Army, on Burgess Place for kindergarten, and east end of Madison Ave by train station from 10-14. There were alot of Dutch in the city/northeast Jersey but I don't know why my paternal families moved specifically to Clifton. Did you ever go to Garret Mountain? We used to fish in the large "pond" on top, have picnics up there, and always wanted to go in the castle but never had a chance. Yes, indeed, a very small world!!

And to think.... My family moved from Clifton NJ to Lounsberry (halfway btwn Owego and Nichols), NY on Aug 16, 1969. Going north on Rt.17, our '63 Chrysler pulled a small trailer with youngest brother's tricycle tied to the top of the mound of a few suitcases to get us thru till my Dad could bring the rest of our household goods back the following week via rental truck. But... in that bumper-to-bumper stop-and-go traffic with light off-and-on rain, I'd never seen so many hippies, guys with long hair, people walking btwn the cars without a care in the world, helicopters dropping packages down... I had NO idea what was going on! My Dad called it a "hippie convention" and rightly so. But I had NO idea we were driving thru Woodstock!! At 14-1/2, I'd lived a very sheltered life to that point. It wasn't until months later that I discovered what it was all about, heard those bands' music that I began to enjoy on The Whale, WAAL, 99.1 out o' Binghamton that I understood. AND then, after meeting my husband-to-be, discovered his brother had worked on Max Yasgur's farm in early '70s, having to do field work and spread manure around hippies still encamped along the field edges! And driving past on RT.17 was the closest I got to that famous music festival!!

Beauty – we all admire the aesthetic and beautiful in both people and nature, though beauty is in the eye of the beholder they say. Often, as our young girls strive to look beautiful, they imitate the actresses and models they admire on the “silver screen” or magazine covers. But youthfulness fails to realize the images are a façade, made more beautiful and glamorous by makeup and the air brush. It’s not a true beauty. And a pretty face may not always have a heart of love and compassion. For “…man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (I Samuel 16:7b) So then, what is beauty? And how do we define it? There’s an old-fashioned philosophy which I believe still holds true today. “Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as [elaborate hairstyles] and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.” (I Peter 3:3-4 NIV) With those wise words from Scripture in mind, when we give of ourselves to benefit others, a depth of beauty is seen through the glow of an unselfish act – the embodiment of genuine love for others. “Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.” (Proverbs 31:30) Living our life to please God reflects the unique inner beauty He has blessed each of us with. “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mothers’ womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful. I know that full well.” (Psalm 139:13-14) We show the beauty of true character by reaching out to help those in need, especially those who cannot pay us back for such a generous gift. Beauty is in a heart of humility, serving others with grace and gentle kindness. Beauty shines brightly when we don’t call attention to ourselves… as we quietly go about living a life of peace by showing honor and respect to all we meet on our path of life. For you will know when someone has been deeply touched by the beauty of your heart… Yet, the question must be asked… what is the opposite of love’s beauty? The generous airs or charms put on to cover that which is defiled… a self-proclaimed boasting in how humble one is… the disguising of a selfish attitude of pride filled with self-centeredness and greed… an indifference, or absence of emotion, caring, compassion, and love. Which brings us back to our initial question, what is beauty? Smiles to brighten someone’s day… a helping hand serving those in need... sharing truth with true humility… earning trust with acceptance and respect of others… generous acts of kindness strewn among friends and strangers… and an unfading gentle spirit of love and peace found within the selfless heart. Among these and more we find true beauty… For “[beauty] should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.” (I Peter 3:4) What is Beauty? Linda A. Roorda What is beauty if the heart is shallow What is glamor when rudeness takes charge And what is charm with selfish desire… For what is love but the giving of self? ~ What then are words when the mind deceives What is character with rebellious soul Or enticing lures to captivate hearts… For what is virtue but integrity’s truth? ~ What is kindness if the tongue reviles And what is honor without reputation Or the humble soul if boastful and proud… For what is grace but gentle elegance? ~ What is adornment when respect has fled What are principles if deceit is the core What is esteem when self is worth more… For what is honor but morality’s judge? ~ What then is beauty but innocence pure The charm and grace of respectful repute Humility’s stance with integrity’s honor… For what is beauty but the gift of self? ~~

oh Ann, you aren't the only one! I stand guilty too 🙂 I'm so glad you enjoyed this blog!

With Memorial Day celebrated last weekend, my thoughts were of those who gave their lives in war that we and so many around the world might live in freedom. Their battles on the field and in the mind are not what we who have never been there can truly fathom. We can listen to or read survivors’ stories, hear of their fears amid tales of bravery, empathize with the sadness and trauma as they share the loss of buddies and who and what they might have become, consider questions relating to the whys and wherefores of war and the lessons learned, but we can never fully comprehend unless we’ve been there. I’m very thankful for all who have served for the sake of freedom, but especially remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice. Yet, even a few years ago, the corona-virus pandemic was being compared to an invisible war. Here and around the world, we battled an infection among us that struck unexpectedly. Our medical professionals grew weary on their battlefront, faced daily unknowns, while being the sole comfort to those dying without family present. We faced the loss of family and community members to Covid, not to mention the toll among the greater world community. We saw unemployment numbers skyrocket, houses of worship closing for a while with a smaller return of members, businesses being shuttered forever, long lines of the weary waiting patiently for free food, arrests of those trying to open their business to normalcy while hardened criminals are released from jail only to commit crimes again without true legal justice, and we’re left with doubts and fears. Will life ever be normal again? I have various doubts and fears, too. If we’re honest, we all do. We think we’re not good enough and will never measure up. We may doubt our abilities or skills, fear a lack of control in certain situations, or fear the unknown future. We look for accolades to prop us up, to make us feel better about ourselves, trying to prove that we really are someone of some importance. But I have to ask: whose voice am I listening to? That inner voice which berates me for every mistake, every misstep, every poor choice or selfish deed, even looking for praise… or, am I listening in humility to God’s gentle nudging, that quiet voice in my soul from His deep and tender love? A number of times I’ve been nudged with a gentle inner whisper, while other times I’ve heard His voice speak loud and clear. Unfortunately, I have not always listened and reacted as I should have. My will, my desired outcome, got in the way of God’s voice. I need to remember to “be still, and know that [He is] God.” (Psalm 46:10a) For when I quiet my frantic ruminations and sit still, humbly and quietly waiting to hear the Lord’s guiding words, it is then that my heart is receptive, and my doubts and fears subside. Open to profound wisdom and examples of Christ’s love in the world around us, I recall “Blood Brothers” from M*A*S*H (April 6, 1981). This episode is a classic, my favorite about the medical unit’s priest, Father Francis Mulcahy. I appreciate his quiet gentle ways, words of wisdom, and deep humility, yet I also appreciate that he is not so “holier than thou.” Like the rest of us in many ways, he reveals a temper flare at times. Knowing his superior, Cardinal Reardon, is scheduled to visit and review what Mulcahy has accomplished at the 4077th, the good Father wants everything and everyone around him to show perfection… including his own sermon. Instead, Mulcahy becomes cranky and frantic with constant interruptions from side issues. Oh, so like me, and all of us, at times! In the midst of feeling sorry for himself, Father Mulcahy learns that Capt. Pierce has just diagnosed one of his patients with an incurable disease. Offering his own blood for his severely wounded best friend, a young soldier is told he has leukemia and can’t give blood. Arguing about plans to send him out the next morning to the hospital in Seoul, Pvt. Gary Sturgis insists to frustrated Capt. Pierce that he wants to stay. A matter of days won’t bring him a cure, and it’s more important that he be at his buddy’s side when his wounded and unconscious friend wakes up. Ultimately, Father Mulcahy sits down and talks with Sturgis. The next morning, Cpl. Max Klinger searches for and finally finds the Father still in his pajamas and bathrobe, engrossed in conversation with Sturgis. Suddenly realizing the entire night has passed them by, Mulcahy is self-conscious and visibly upset at himself. Totally unprepared to face the Cardinal and his congregants, Mulcahy enters the mess tent used for the worship service. Stumbling over apologies for his lateness and disheveled appearance, and lack of a well-written sermon, Father Mulcahy decides to simply tell the truth. “I want to tell you about two men. Each facing his own crisis. The first man you know rather well. The second is a patient here. Well, the first man thought he was facing a crisis. But what he was really doing was trying to impress someone. He was looking for recognition, encouragement, a pat on the back. And whenever that recognition seemed threatened, he reacted rather childishly. Blamed everyone for his problems but himself, because he was thinking only of himself. But the second man was confronted with the greatest crisis mortal man can face - the loss of his life. I think you will agree that the second man had every right to be selfish. But instead he chose to think not of himself, but of a brother. A brother! When the first man saw the dignity and the selflessness of the second man, he realized how petty and selfish he had... I... I... I had been! It made me see something more clearly than I've ever seen it before. God didn't put us here for that pat on the back. He created us so He could be here himself. So, He could exist in the lives of those He created in his image.” What great words to live by! We truly have a purpose in life! We can learn so much from others around us in examples of Christ’s love… even as we’re in the world, but not of it. (John 17:14-16) Just as our “faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1), so should our doubts and fears disappear in the presence of our Lord. “You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in You. Trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord…is the Rock eternal.” (Isaiah 26:3,4) It’s not the inner negatives nor the adulation I hope to hear that matters. It’s where my heart resides in humility as I seek our Lord’s approval. As we each grow in faith, we look to God to guide us through our fears, doubts of inadequacy or inferiority that plague our thoughts, the negativity which so easily berates us… remembering and recognizing that we belong to God, and are loved beyond measure by Him. Christ lives in us as we become His hands and feet to reach others. In bringing Him our praise, we will hear His still small voice in our hearts, removing all doubts and fears that assail no matter what we face. When Doubts Assail… Linda A. Roorda When doubts assail look up beyond self Focus on truth from wisdom above. Take heart from His words spoken in peace And know He holds you in the palm of His hand. ~ When doubts assail know you’re not alone There’s Someone who cares, your burden to bear. He’ll give you His peace and provide a way through As darkest of nights emerge in new dawn. ~ When doubts assail and plague your heart Thinking your worth isn’t good enough, That you could never measure up in life, Know there is Someone who believes in you. ~ When doubts assail and fears haunt your path Speak softly in prayer and listen for His voice, That gentlest nudge stirring in your soul, As He guides your steps in the way you should go. ~ When doubts assail be eager to learn At the feet of Him whose wisdom excels, Bask in His love and dwell in His presence Building your faith to prosper in truth. ~ When doubts assail lift your voice in song Glorify His name with reverence and awe, For Holy is He, full of mercy and grace… As a child of the King, you’re loved beyond measure. ~~

Starting my early Saturday morning chore of laundry, I couldn’t help recall this article I wrote a few years ago. Doing the laundry is everyone’s favorite chore, right? Ummm… no! Even with modern conveniences, it’s a task I don’t think many of us look forward to. Sort the darks and lights, delicate linens from the jeans, pre-treat stains, use various cycles and water temperatures, to bleach or not to bleach, does it go in the dryer, on a hanger or the clothesline outside, does it need to be ironed or can it get by with some wrinkles, etc. You all get the idea! Actually there was a time my sister (age 10) and I (age 11) did all the family laundry at the city laundromat at the top of the block after my third brother was born and our Mom was laid up with health issues that summer. We pulled the "little red wagon" with one or two baskets of laundry piled up, and learned pretty quick how to do the laundry on our own without being taught, using those big washers and driers. With teamwork, we folded the big sheets and everything else to the admiration of older folks doing their own laundry. But the best part was the incentive in that we also had some money to buy treats each time! I remember as I grew up that my dad’s mother did laundry on Monday and ironed on Tuesday, without fail. Both she and my mother had old wringer washers, which fascinated us kids. My sister and I actually enjoyed putting the laundry through the rollers to “wring” out the excess water, heeding the warning to keep our fingers away from those menacing rollers! I’m sure many of my readers remember those antique washers, too! With perhaps a few fingers painfully scrunched between the rollers. So, imagine what it must have been like doing laundry in colonial days without washers and dryers. The fabrics were wool, linen, cotton or silk, without permanent press. It was a major undertaking back then, and not an effort completed every week. I found it interesting to learn that most items laundered were “body linen.” These garments (undershirts, shifts, chemises, etc.) were worn next to the skin to protect the fancy outer shirts and dresses from skin oils and sweat. Clothing from a few centuries ago was not laundered often because the undergarments protected them, in turn being the very reason that antique clothing has survived the centuries. Removable cuffs and collars also protected their shirts and dresses from dirt, along with the full bib aprons which I recall my mom’s mother always wearing over her dresses in the old farmhouse. My dad’s mother seemed to wear mostly a below-the-waist type apron over her every-day dress. Wearing pants, or jeans, was out of the question for my grandmothers’ generation! But, to wash all the laundry, soap was needed. One of the annual fall chores was to make soap, typically done after the fall butchering of hogs. Virtually every part of a butchered hog had a purpose with the lard being used for cooking or making soap. Soap making began well in advance by burning hardwoods down to white ash. Next, a tall wooden barrel was set up with holes in the bottom for drainage. Small stones were placed in the bottom of the barrel, and covered with straw. A good layer of white ashes was put in with naturally soft rainwater poured on top of the ashes. Then followed a slow drainage of the water down through the ashes, straw and stones before the liquid leached out of the holes in the bottom of the barrel and into a separate wooden or glass bucket. This effort produced liquid lye. Aluminum containers were not used as the lye would destroy them. Sometimes an ash hopper was used to make lye rather than the tall wooden barrel. By keeping the ash hopper in a shed to protect it from rain, fresh ashes could be added periodically with water poured on top every so often to obtain a steady supply of lye. Again, the lye would drip slowly into a bucket beneath the hopper. To test the strength of the lye, either a potato or an egg was floated on top. If it floated with about a modern quarter-sized area of its surface above the liquid, the lye was ready for use in making soap. If it was too weak, it could be boiled down more, or poured back through more ashes. If it was too strong, a little more water was added. To make old-fashioned soap, water, lye and tallow/animal fat is needed. One recipe I found online uses 2 gallons of rain water, 10 ounces of lye by volume (not weight), and 5 lbs of tallow/lard (animal fat). Trim the fat into about 1-inch cubes, removing anything that looks like meat or is not white. Start a fire under a cast iron pot (split pine apparently works best as it heats quickly and the heat is controlled easier). Place the tallow cubes into the pot to render (cook) the fat into a liquid. Once the fat has cooked down, strain it through cheesecloth in a funnel-shaped container. The liquid should be a nice amber color. Then, measure and weigh 5 lbs of liquid fat, putting it back into the cast iron pot (again, aluminum will be eaten by the lye). Slowly add the water to the fat, which cools the fat down to solidify it into a greasy cream. Make sure the mixture is well blended. Carefully measure out 10 oz. of lye into a glass container. (Red Devil Lye brand can be purchased, and was often used by our ancestors if they did not make their own lye from ashes.) Carefully add the lye into the tallow/water mixture using a wooden paddle to stir it gently. Be careful - since lye is extremely caustic, it can burn your skin and eyes on contact. Cook the soap mixture for 30-60 minutes, stirring occasionally, adjusting the heat to keep it from boiling over. After cooking, the mixture should be similar to a creamy chicken soup. When the wooden paddle removed from the mixture has “sheets” that look like hot wax hanging from the paddle, it’s ready to pour into wooden, glass or cast-iron molds that have been lined with plastic wrap or waxed paper. Allow the soap to harden for a few days before cutting it into bars. It may take a week or more to harden for use. (Online Source: Shepherds Hill Homestead, Making Lye Soap – no longer available online. Try Daves Homestead, How to make the easiest lye soap ever. Before washing stacks of laundry, the ladies would have sorted the clothing, soaking some overnight in soapy water. Sounds similar enough, doesn’t it?! But the difference starts with their gathering enough firewood to feed a large fire under each huge copper (which did not rust or stain like iron) or black cast-iron kettle. You’ve seen those kettles in front yards either upright or on their side as a large flower urn. The Iron Kettle Farm in Candor takes its name from their large black iron kettles on display. Next, water had to be hauled from the well to fill the kettle(s) and any other wash or rinse basins. About 20-40 gallons of water were needed per wash load, with perhaps 10 gallons more for the scrub and rinse basins. Remember, they had no running water back then either; and, if they did not have a water source close at hand, walking a distance with heavy shoulder yokes to carry buckets of water would have been the norm. My mom’s mother raised a large farm family of 12 children, not having running water in the house until the early 1930s, 20 or so years after my grandparents married (my mother, child #11, was born after running water was available). Are we tired yet?! After starting a good fire under the kettle to boil the water, some lye soap was put into the water. Clothes were then dunked into the boiling water and agitated by using a 2-3 foot long wooden paddle. Some garments might be removed to a smaller basin where they could be scrubbed more thoroughly to remove dirt and stains. Remember the antique wooden shutter-like washboards? They were put to good use as the clothes were rubbed over the “shutters” to loosen dirt. Chalk and brick dust were often used on greasy stains. Alcohol could treat grass stains, kerosene, and blood stains. Milk was believed to be helpful in removing fruit stains from clothing and urine stains from diapers. Lemon and onion juice were often used for bleaching. Colored garments were not washed with lye soap in order to prevent fading. Instead, they were scrubbed by hand in cold or lukewarm water. Need something starched? Great-great-grandma simply put that garment into water that had been used to cook potatoes or rice, making sure the water had not soured or turned moldy before putting the clothing in it. If the used potato or rice water was not used for laundry, it was often used to make bread. Nothing went to waste back then. Once boiled, washed and rinsed, the laundry had to be wrung out before drying. If you were wealthy, you might own a “box mangle” which wound the laundry around rollers, and then rolled a heavy box over them to squeeze out excess water. Normally, water was simply wrung out by hand by twisting each garment. Then, the clothing was hung on a clothesline (without clothespins), spread out on bushes, hedgerows, fences, wooden frames, or even spread out over the lawn. And, oh my! If the farm animals or pets got into the clothing, one had quite a mess and had to start the process all over again. If it was not good drying weather, everything was dried inside the house or up in the attic. A good hot fire in the fireplace or cook stove would help dry the clothes very well. After the laundry was done and dried, the ladies would need to iron the clothing. That required heating up heavy irons in the fireplace in order to press each garment. What a hot chore that must have been! And all the time they were taking care of the laundry, they had other household chores and meals to prepare, children to care for, and barn chores if the man of the house was out in the fields clearing land, planting or harvesting. It was definitely not an easy life for our ancestors. Linda Roorda writes from her home in Spencer.

Blessings are simple gifts given with joy and appreciation to another. Like this week, I was blessed by one of “my” students. Opening the door to welcome each one as they arrive, I heard how much a young lady appreciates my smiles and personal greetings every day, as she reached out to give me a big hug. That touched my heart deeply as I thanked her with tears in my own eyes. Blessings are gifts given with no expectation of payback. They arrive unexpectedly from many sources… from our dear family and friends, from strangers we pass on our daily path, from a special moment in time, and all from our God above. Blessings convey love from the sender. They invoke inspiration as we face nature’s finest moments of grandeur. Given by our Creator God, blessings take our breath away as we pause in awe. Blessings come in the simple form of a thankful heart when we’ve given to meet someone else’s need without expecting a reward… Blessings come within the deep sense of pleasure for that special little something done as a random anonymous act of kindness and generosity to cheer another soul on their journey of life… Blessings come specific to each person… for we are each created unique. My blessings are different from yours, and yours are different from those who you know. When we truly stop to think about it, we realize that all of life is a blessing. I remember the old hymn from my childhood, “Count your blessings, name them one by one. Count your blessings, see what God hath done…” But, in reality, I cannot even begin to count all my blessings nor to comprehend their great number. And that’s the key – understanding that all of life, from this entire world and universe down to our little life in and of itself, is a blessing in every way imaginable from our great and awesome God! Blessings come with prayer and a thankful heart as we receive them from God. He, as creator of this universe and each of us within it, owes us nothing. Yet, He loved us so much, despite our disobedient ungrateful hearts, that “[He] shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. (Romans 5:8) We owe Him everything… every ounce of praise from our thankful heart… for from Him, we have life, even the air we breathe, and so much more which we take for granted every day… and from Him, we have our precious gift of eternal salvation that nothing can destroy. And when we see our life and the world around us that way, we truly see our blessings with a grateful heart… ready to offer praise with thanksgiving to God for such awesome gifts in even the simplest of treasures. May you be blessed, today and always!! Blessings Linda A. Roorda Like dawn awaking to a gentle rain Are blessings showered upon our lives From seemingly small to greatest of all They are the simple, and yet not trivial. ~ We take a breath with no thought to the gift Each second, each minute of every new day Yet it’s a blessing we take for granted With nary a thought as to the Giver. ~ From dawn to dusk the sun bathes our world As our eyes behold the beauty around us With its warming glow is our life enhanced While we think naught from whence it came. ~ A whispered word of gentle praise And loving concern expressed with feeling Abilities shared with ease of talent These, too, are blessings which touch deep the soul. ~ An act of kindness, random or thoughtful Given from the heart is but a reflection, An image of grace like that received And bestowed in mercy by our Lord above. ~ Love from the heart, in tenderest form Treasures each life we meet on our path, To bless another aside from our wants Enriches us both as God leads our way. ~~

I’ve had Tourette’s since age 10-11, starting within a year after my family moved from farms in upstate New York to city life in Clifton, New Jersey… the city where I was born and my dad grew up. It was an extremely emotional, disruptive time in my life to leave behind my close friends and the country life I loved and preferred. I’ve shared my story before, but it bears repeating because I am not alone and I wish to encourage others. And actually, I have been contacted privately by a few with Tourette's, sharing their story. Tourette Syndrome Awareness Month is from May 15 to June 15, with the annual Tourette Syndrome Awareness Day on June 7, 2023. Tourette Syndrome was named for a French neurologist, Dr. Georges Gilles de la Tourette. He was the first to describe children and adults with specific tic movements in 1884, publishing his study about this syndrome in 1885. I’d always believed it was the stress from moving to city life which precipitated my tics. I now understand there is often a genetic component, though I have no idea who may have had it in any older generation. Most of my life I’ve been embarrassed and ashamed to admit I had Tourette’s. Nor did my parents know what to do about it. I was initially mocked, and quickly learned to hide or camouflage the tics with movements that wouldn’t be as readily obvious. I am constantly “on alert”. Though I can generally successfully “hide” the tics (or so I think), they have to have an out and are worse when I’m away from the public eye or under stress. I’ve called the tics “my habit”, but never had a diagnosis until reading a letter in a Dear Abby column in my early 20s. Self-diagnosing from the apt description in that letter and response by the columnist, I felt such a relief to know my affliction had a name! Still, I only shared this information with my husband and closest family. Though embarrassed and ashamed to see myself with tic movements in a family video, I have not let Tourette’s control my life or employment. I was also afraid of passing it on to my children, but I wanted and was blessed with a family. I’m aware of the tics, and am able to control them… but only somewhat. And I’m also thankful they are considered “simple” tics. Just as I’ve been ashamed of my movements, so my late husband was ashamed of being legally blind growing up. (He read and approved this when I initially wrote it.) He couldn’t see the school blackboard with his limited vision, even sitting in the front row, and would not ask for the help he needed. Kids don’t want to be different from their peers. When they have a noticeable difference, they are too often teased or mocked like my husband was, and become ashamed of who they are… sometimes with devastating effects, like suicide. It’s up to us as adults, and even children, to be aware of the issues that others around us are dealing with. If we provide support, acceptance, and encouragement, we will see ourselves for who we truly are - uniquely created in the image of God, and very loved. While subbing one day, I was surprised by a young student who kindly asked, “Do you have Tourette’s?” Seeing no point in denying the obvious to those sweet innocent eyes, I replied, “Yes, I do. But how do you know about Tourette’s?” She’d watched a show. As kids do, they talked amongst themselves and others began asking me questions. This led to their teacher setting aside time so I could share what I knew about living with Tourette’s. I answered their many questions as several added they knew someone with Tourette’s, too! It was an informative session, endearing these students to me for their kindness and understanding. They simply accepted me for who I am, just as I accept each of them. Tourette Syndrome is one type of tic disorder, meeting certain medical criteria of involuntary, repetitive movements and vocalizations, lasting for specific lengths of time. My “simple” tics include, but are not limited to, sudden brief, repetitive movements of certain muscle groups like hard eye blinking or scrunching (the first symptom for most, including myself), facial, mouth, and head movements, shoulder shrugging, arm, hand and finger movements, head and shoulder jerking, leg and foot movements, throat clearing, repeating words or phrases verbally (or in my mind), and more. I have an arthritic bony prominence of my collarbone from decades-long shoulder shrugs, and thoracic spine pain/arthritis from prior movements. Tics wax and wane, change muscle groups at whim, and become worse under stress. Though the tics have never gone away, they often subside, albeit briefly, when I’m fully absorbed in hobbies like singing, sleeping or painting. Totally absorbed while playing intently with my toddler son years ago, my step-mother commented that my tics had totally stopped during that brief window of time. That was the first time I realized there really were times when “my habit” stopped! Tourette Syndrome is a neurodevelopmental disorder with typical onset in childhood or adolescence. Chemical imbalances in the brain, environmental factors, or genetics are considered causative factors. There is no cure, but there are some treatment options. About 35 years ago, I was officially diagnosed by a neurologist and prescribed medication. Unfortunately, taking just half a pill of the smallest dose, the dopey side effect for me was much worse than dealing with the tics, so I declined further medication. I do not have “complex” tics which include distinct patterns with multiple muscles and movements, hopping and twirling, head banging, and more. Vocal tics can include sniffing, throat clearing, shouting, saying words or phrases, and repeating what was heard. Though swearing and unacceptable language are found in a small percentage of Tourette cases, the media often describes coprolalia as a more common symptom. My heart goes out to those with this more severe and disruptive range of tics, some of whom may qualify for disability benefits. Many with Tourette’s also have other diagnoses including obsessive-compulsive disorder, hyperactivity (possibly me), attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder, and learning disabilities. Guidepost magazine once featured contemporary Christian music singer, Jamie Grace, sharing her diagnosis of Tourette’s. Reading the article about her, I burst into tears just to know that someone else has it but has not let it stop her from living a full life either. I always felt so alone, never knowing anyone else with Tourette’s until I opened up about it a few years ago here on Facebook. Looking at this from God’s perspective, I find it comforting to know He sees me for who I am, Tourette’s and all. He has a greater purpose for our lives as we bring honor and glory to Him in all that we do, even with our limitations. Often, as we go through the trials of life, that’s when we learn how to trust and rely on the Lord the best. In overcoming our own problems, God uses us and our difficult circumstances to reach others who may be dealing with similar issues, bringing love and comfort to them in a way that is as unique as we are each gifted individually. Sharing my brief story on the Tourette Association’s website to encourage others, you can check it out here, and read about the road others have traveled and learn more information at the Tourette Syndrome website tourette.org.

“You never think of your parents as much more than parents. It isn’t until you are older yourself that you begin to realize they had their hopes, dreams, ambitions, and secret thoughts. You sort of take them for granted and sometimes you are startled to know they were in love a time or two…. You never stop to think about what they were like until it is too late…” (Louis L’Amour in “Tucker”) Oh how true!! The tomboy that I was while growing up in my teens, working and learning beside my Dad, prepared me for later becoming a farmer’s wife. After all, the love of farming is in the blood of both my parents! I was not fond of housework, much preferring to be outside or in the barn. Yet we women fill so many different roles. Not all of us are wives and mothers. Some of us remain single. Some of us are meant to pursue life-time careers. Some of us work to support our family, when we would prefer to be at home raising our children. Often, our likes and dislikes, and even careers, change throughout our lifetime. Typically, we women are great multi-taskers, but I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad! We come from different walks in life, and we’re very different from each other in feelings, perspectives, and opinions. I’ve had several “big sisters” or “surrogate mothers” in my lifetime who added a special dimension to my maturing and learning - my Dad’s mother, Grammy, with whom I wrote letters every other week for decades from my teens on, who helped raise me as an infant and toddler, and was there with an ear and advice as I raised my own children; my cousin Howard’s wife, Carol, like a big sister to me and whose four children my sister and I babysat during their weekend auctions in our teens, and with whom I continue to keep in touch; and his brother Robert’s wife, Virginia, briefly my hunting partner in my teens, also taught me how to cook certain meals when I lived with their family while working in Ithaca several months before my marriage to Ed, learning to make delicious homemade spaghetti sauce and a down-home scrumptious simple goulash, both a favorite in my own family’s supper menu. But I remember my Mom for many things… as I grew up, she was a traditional housewife, taking care of the home and growing a large garden. She continued her mother’s example by canning and freezing the produce every summer except the years we lived in Clifton, NJ. When we butchered chickens, Dad put them on the chopping block, we two sisters were the “dunk-and-pluck” crew, while Mom knew how to properly dress them for the freezer, showing us one hen’s set of graduated eggs sans shells from large to very small! She was quiet and reserved, did not share much, if anything, about herself or her family as I grew up, but she had a strong faith in God. Her mother died when I was 9 so I have limited memories of her, though eventually my mother shared stories of growing up and of her mother’s busy life raising 12 children, helping on their large chicken and dairy farm. My mom loved the country/farm life, as I do. And she knew how to deliciously cook up the squirrel I shot, or all game and fish my Dad brought home! A few things she shared included making true homemade ice cream (no pre-made mix) as we kids clamored for a turn at hand cranking, bottling homemade root beer, and heating up the best hot cocoa with real cocoa powder, sugar and milk on the stove – all things from her childhood. She also made a Dutch barley soup with buttermilk and brown sugar that I loved, as well as the most delicious cream puffs in the world using our duck eggs. She could sew, but it was not her favorite. She taught me to iron clothes and Dad’s handkerchiefs before permanent press fabrics hit the market. I loved her homemade bread and made some a few times after I was married, but it was not my favorite venture. As a kid, I savored her delicious toasted-cheese sandwiches with her homemade dill pickle slices tucked between slices of her homemade bread – long before Vlasic ever thought of selling bottled dill pickle slices for that very purpose! My sister and I did a lot of the bean and pea picking, snapping and shelling. Though we tossed some of those veggies as youngsters when we were tired of our chore, freshly picked and cooked peas remain my favorite. I loved visiting the farm my Mom grew up on, and later in life enjoyed hearing stories of her younger days. She shared some of her wisdom, but typical of teens, I wasn’t always listening or accepting. I did not hear much of her childhood until I began researching and documenting her family’s genealogy decades after I got married. And treasure the time I drove her around her hometown of Carlisle, NY, sharing and pointing out places connected to her life, as I wrote down her childhood stories. My only desire had been to be a stay-at-home mother like my Mom, but circumstances beyond our control put me back into the workforce when my children were very young. Each of my secretarial jobs (beginning part time as a high school senior in an Owego law office), built the foundation and skills for the next job, preparing me for my final medical transcription career before retiring and changing direction once more - subbing for teachers and their TAs, jobs I love, “being there” for “my” students. But whether it’s being a mother or having a career, that’s not where all our satisfaction is found. ewing many clothes for myself, husband and children, and canning and freezing a year’s worth of garden produce and fruit while raising my little ones were all reminiscent of the “good ol’ days.” It does our heart good to “be there” for someone else, whether to provide emotional support, bring a meal to a shut-in, or lend aid in other ways to someone in need… sometimes even if only to give an ear and a shoulder for their hurts. And that doesn’t begin to describe the love felt by the recipients of our gifts of love and time. But doing good for others is not where we derive all our satisfaction either. For several years, a popular women’s Bible study has been the “Proverbs 31 Woman.” I like this passage of Scripture in Proverbs 31:10-31 (NIV), written by Israel’s King Solomon who had achieved fame as the wisest man in the world. It speaks about a wife of noble character, and what she does to bring blessing to her husband and children, her family. She works to care and provide for the needs of her household. She buys and sells property and goods for a profit. She respects her husband and brings him good in all she does, whether at home, among her friends, or in the city at large. She speaks with a wise heart. She does not sit around in idleness; instead, she demonstrates strength and dignity in all situations. For "a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised." (Proverbs 31:30b) As I ponder this passage, I feel like it shows that I clearly don’t measure up. For I know all too well my own failings. Yet, there’s no reason why I cannot pursue change within. So, I seek that quiet time to study, meditate, pray, and listen to what the Lord has to say within my heart. It’s the Lord’s approval I long for… to guide my steps, to change my course, to cover me with forgiveness, peace and contentment, and to find satisfaction in doing what He expects of me even when it’s not the easiest path, nor the one I would choose. May you be blessed - whether or not you are called Mom - for all the love you share, and for all the time and effort you put into being there for those around you… Happy Mother’s Day! I Am A Woman Linda A. Roorda ~ I am a woman. I am a mother. I’m a little girl, deep in my heart. I am emotions, raw and revealing. I am deep strength when life overwhelms. ~ I’ve carried love within my heart For family dear, and friends held close, For husband wise, light of my world And children young, growing their dreams. ~ I see the needs to be fulfilled. I reach to you, a life to touch. I shed a tear, and hold your hand To ease your pain, and bring a smile. ~ In quiet time, I seek Your will, Lord. A time to renew, to calm my fears, To savor sweet dreams, my hopes and plans As You care for me, and meet all my needs. ~ I fail at times to walk the path Yet You, oh Lord, are at my side. You pick me up each time I fall To gently remind, Your child I am. ~ I’ve harbored pain of losses that wound. I’ve weathered storms, battered and scarred. But my weary soul with peace You fill, That I may praise and bless Your name. ~ I hear Your voice and will in Your Word, For wisdom I’ve gained upon this road Will lead me on to comfort and love Others in need with You at my side. ~~

There’s a friend who holds your heart over many years, and over many long and weary paths. The friend who freely forgives when you admit your words or actions were wrong. The friend who’s there when life gets tough and you think you’ll never get back up to face another day. The friend who shares your joy as if it were their own. The friend whose loving heart picks right up where you both left off when distance, time, and commitments take their toll. The friend who shares your dreams and helps you reach them. The friend who… You know! You can finish that sentence from how your friends have endeared themselves to your heart! For there’s nothing better than the love of a true friend. You both encourage to help the other achieve their best. But there’s another friend who always walks beside us, eager to welcome the wanderer with arms open wide, ready to share the depth of His love with us… our Lord. And, in a way that is most meaningful to each of us, He longs to share that love… in the beauty of the world on display all around us, in the joy of unexpected treasures, in life’s simple but profound moments, in “coincidences” that astound our finite minds… in other words, in unique and special moments of every-day life. Still, there’s another kind of friend who readily gives his life for ours. As we read in John 15:13, “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.” Could, or would, we do that for one of our friends? Many have done so in war, in the ultimate sacrifice of their life to protect and save others. But ordinarily, we wouldn’t think of taking such a step. Yet, “God demonstrated his own love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8) “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus.” (Romans 3:23) It’s only through Jesus, that precious little baby whose birth we celebrate at Christmas, who grew to manhood with a rich ministry, and who lay down His life to die for each of us, and who arose that we might gain eternal salvation: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3:16) That, indeed, is quite the friend! And I, for one, can’t help but think that I don’t deserve such profound love. Yet, even in that thought is the wonder of just how precious His love truly is... knowing He loved me first and drew me to Himself despite who I am or what I might have ever done. For me He came to earth. For my life He lived. For my soul He died… and not just for me, but for each one of us. And with our acceptance of His gracious gift of salvation, we long to bring glory and honor and praise back to Him in all that we do… In accepting His most gracious gift, we can spend eternity with Him in His glorious heavenly home. For that, we will humbly bow our head and thank Him, and give Him all our praise and worship… for He’s the closest of friends, the one and only… You’re The Friend Linda A. Roorda My Lord, You’re the friend I don’t deserve Who’s cared enough to die for my soul Whose love envelopes my heart with peace Whose joyful song lifts my load of cares. ~ You’re the friend I choose when others desert When the path is long with no end in sight When the trials come and the way grows drear You hold my heart in nail-scarred hands. ~ You’re the friend who stays and never abandons Who whispers wisdom to gently strengthen Whose loving words guide wandering feet Who draws me away from sin and its harm. ~ You’re the friend who calls and tenderly seeks Who opens my eyes to wisdom’s beauty That my heart would yearn, Your knowledge to gain As truth I pursue with heart, soul and mind. ~ You’re the friend who holds faith’s mercy and grace For nothing I do can ever repay Salvation’s gift as exposed I stand And all is revealed in depths of my soul. ~ You’re the friend whose love softly covers As humbly I come with contrition deep Trusting your grip, I reach for your hands Hands that were pierced to carry my soul. ~ For you’re the friend who will never leave You’re the friend who seeks the depths of my soul You’re the friend in whom faith finds sweet mercy For you’re the friend whose praises I sing. ~~ Linda Roorda writes from her home in Spencer.

Whether or not we had ancestors or extended relatives who served in the American Civil War, it’s only fitting that we commemorate the 159th anniversary of its conclusion this past April. This was the war that gave freedom to all slaves, despite that issue not being the war’s original intent. It all began when seven states from the south seceded from the bonds of the United States of America upon Abraham Lincoln’s election as president in November 1860. By February 1861, the Confederate States of America had formed, whereupon the United States government declared its existence was illegal. Four more states seceded from the Union with the April 12, 1861 firing by Confederates on Fort Sumter in Charleston, South Carolina, a Union-held fort. Only later did the slavery issue become the leading bone of contention between the north and south. Not until September 22, 1862 did President Lincoln declare that as of January 1, 1863 “all slaves in states in rebellion against the Union ‘shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free.’” Lincoln was also astute enough to know this would be "the central act of my administration, and the greatest event of the 19th century." And so, one hundred and fifty-nine years ago, men on both sides of our nation’s civil war lay down their arms after four long years. But, few knew when dawn broke on Palm Sunday, April 9, 1865, that it was the beginning of the end. General Robert E. Lee of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia was backed into a corner on the battlefield with nothing left to do but accept the offer of surrender to General Ulysses S. Grant of the Union (i.e. Northern) Army. Grant had pursued Lee’s army relentlessly. In fact, Grant’s troops were entrenched around Petersburg and Richmond, Virginia. Grant thus kept Lee under a loose siege in an attempt to sever the supply lines which enabled the Confederate armies to remain viable. As the Union Army drew Lee’s forces into battle on April 1, 1865 and cut their supply lines, Lee had no choice but to abandon ground he had held for virtually ten months. In retreat, he expected to meet up with other Confederate units in order to regroup as designated supply trains arrived with fresh provisions. Unfortunately, the Union cavalry found and attacked remnants of Lee’s army enroute, forcing several thousand Confederates to surrender. Supplies were also captured by the Northern Army, preventing the Southern troops from getting their designated supplies in order to continue fighting. On April 7, and after several small skirmishes, Grant sent a message to Lee suggesting that he surrender. Though Lee refused, he did ask Grant to spell out the terms being offered, hoping to buy sufficient time to meet up with additional Southern troops. The next day, however, three Confederate supply trains were captured and burned at Appomattox Station by Brevet Maj. Gen. George Armstrong Custer. This left two more Southern armies which were arriving to support Lee without their desperately-needed supplies of food and more. Knowing there was just one more supply train available a little farther west at Lynchburg, Lee decided to fight on and push his army through the Northern Army’s lines of defense. On Sunday morning, April 9, the Southern Army forced back a section of the Northern Army’s line of defense. As they pushed forward, however, the next line of the Union Army slowed the Confederates down. Desperately continuing their charge forward, they finally broke through the Union defense… only to find that, as their cavalry reached the summit of a hill, the Union Army lay spread out before them fully prepared to repel the Southern Army. Maj. Gen. John B. Gordon sent a message to Gen. Lee stating, “…I have fought my corps to a frazzle, and I fear I can do nothing unless I am heavily supported by Longstreet’s corps.” Knowing that Lt. Gen. James Longstreet was fully engaged by the Northern Army and unable to come to Gordon’s aid, Lee knew he had no other choice but to surrender. “Then there is nothing left for me to do but to go and see General Grant and I would rather die a thousand deaths,” Lee replied to Gordon. [The Appomattox Campaign: March 29-April 9, 1865, by Joe Williams, National Park Service. Per Wikipedia] General Robert E. Lee went to meet Grant that Palm Sunday, April 9, dressed impeccably in full uniform. General Ulysses S. Grant (having allowed Lee to select their meeting site) arrived as is from the battlefield in an unkempt uniform spattered by mud with his pants tucked into well-worn muddy boots. Lee’s men had been hounded as they tried to gain the upper hand over his fellow graduate of West Point. Even supply trains seemed to contrive against him as they were prevented from meeting his Southern troops at designated stops. The great Confederate effort had begun to unravel… rapidly. Though his soldiers were bone weary, starving hungry, emaciated, emotionally and physically drained, they were ready to follow their beloved commander wherever he led them. And this was where Lee brought them… to Appomattox Court House, Virginia, to the country home of Wilmer and Virginia McLean… to surrender. The meeting between Grant and Lee was initially emotional as they discussed their only other meeting about 20 years earlier in the Mexican-American War. Sitting down to business, the terms of surrender given by Grant were more generous than expected. See Robert E. Lee's Surrender at Appomattox from the pages of Harper's Weekly. Written documentation was provided by Grant’s adjutant, Ely Parker, a Native American of the Seneca tribe. When Lee learned of Parker’s heritage, he commented, “It is good to have one real American here.” Parker replied simply, “Sir, we are all Americans.” Grant allowed that each man could keep his own horse or mule, so vital for the spring field work ahead. The officers could keep their small sidearms, but all men were to leave their larger shotguns, rifles, artillery field pieces, and public property. They were to refrain from taking up arms in the future against the United States of America, and to respectfully embrace all laws within the state they lived. After the formalities were concluded inside the house, they stepped quietly outside. As Grant’s men began cheering in a celebratory manner, he ordered them to stop immediately. “The Confederates are now our countrymen, and we [do] not want to exult over their downfall.” Respect was paramount in Grant’s eyes. He even provided food rations to Lee’s starving army. [quotes above from April 1865: The Month That Saved America, Jay Winik; New York: HarperCollins, 2006, p.191.] On April 12, 1865, Gen. Robert E. Lee’s soldiers lined up to stack their guns under the Union Army’s watchful eye. Brig. Gen. Joshua L. Chamberlain, the Union officer chosen to lead the formal ceremony of surrender, wrote a moving tribute: “The momentous meaning of this occasion impressed me deeply. I resolved to mark it by some token of recognition, which could be no other than a salute of arms… Before us in proud humiliation stood the embodiment of manhood: men whom neither toils nor sufferings, nor the fact of death, nor disaster, nor hopelessness could bend from their resolve; standing before us now, thin, worn, and famished, but erect, and with eyes looking level into ours, waking memories that bound us together as no other bond – was not such manhood to be welcomed back into a Union so tested and assured? …when the head of each division column comes opposite our group, our bugle sounds the signal and instantly our whole line from right to left, regiment by regiment in succession, gives the soldier’s salutation, from the ‘order arms’ to the old ‘carry’, the marching salute... honor answering honor. On our part not a sound of trumpet more, nor roll of drum; not a cheer, nor word nor whisper of vain-glorying, nor motion of man standing again at the order, but an awed stillness rather, and breath-holding, as if it were the passing of the dead!” [Passing of the Armies, Joshua Chamberlain, pp. 260-261; per Wikipedia] When the roughly 28,000 soldiers of Gen. Lee’s former Confederate Army of Northern Virginia stacked their arms, they must have done so with tremendous mixed emotions. It’s not easy to lose. It’s not easy to have fought so hard and so long for what you believed in with all your heart only to have it come to this... surrender. But, Grant allowed them to retain their dignity. As they walked past their former enemies, each man was saluted with respect. With this solemn ceremony, both sides must have felt a great sense of relief that the long and bitter war was finally over. The Surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia, April 12, 1865. Painting by Ken Riley. Courtesy West Point Museum, U. S. Military Academy, West Point, New York. The respect that Gen. Grant and his men paid to the Southern soldiers was intended to be taken back home to their countrymen as each man turned and walked away... back to the family each had left behind so long ago… back to a family that might no longer be intact… back to a home or farm left tattered and ruined by the men they were surrendering to. It would be a long road home for men on both sides. They faced physical and emotional difficulties as they recovered. But, the road for men traveling south may have been fraught with a depth of anxiety the northerners likely never knew. What remained of the family and home left behind? Too often, very little. It would be a long road ahead to rebuild the devastation of a countryside laid waste by war… crops to plant, homes and farms to rebuild, and cities and business to re-establish. It would take a lot of determination to move forward, but move forward our nation would. Yet, thousands of men and boys did not have the opportunity to go home. Many, if not all, of those walking home had family members and/or friends who had given the ultimate sacrifice. By April 1865, the nation had been at war for four long weary years. Additional Confederate armies surrendered over the ensuing days and weeks. Everyone was tired. The nation at large was utterly drained. The war had exacted its final toll from about 630,000 men while over one million were formally listed as casualties of war, i.e. wounded - some with loss of limbs, some in emotional turmoil, some carrying disease that began on the battlefield or in prison. The after-effects lasted far beyond the cessation of actual physical combat. And then, just as the end of war was beginning to register in their weary minds, the nation’s much beloved and equally hated president, Abraham Lincoln, was assassinated. What next? What was this world coming to? How would the nation continue to move forward? Among my ancestors and extended relatives who fought in the Civil War are two McNeill half-brothers, each of whom spent time in Confederate prisons. They were sons of Robert McNeill who served in the War of 1812, removing to Michigan with his family; Robert is an older brother of my ancestor, Jesse. 1) Chauncey McNeill, b. about 1819, Carlisle, Schoharie Co., NY, son of Robert and 1st wife Matilda (Crego) McNeill. “Chancy” enlisted in 8th Michigan Cavalry Sep 2, 1864, went missing in action at Henryville, Tennessee Nov 23, 1864. Imprisoned at Camp Sumter/Andersonville, admitted to hospital Feb 21, 1865, died March 5, 1865 of “Cronick Diarheah and exposure in said Rebel Prison,” buried grave No. 12733 at Andersonville, Georgia, leaving a widow and two young children. [Above per NARA military service records purchased by Roorda.] “12733, McNiell, C, 8 cav, Co M, died March 5, '65, diarrhea c.” A List of the Union Soldiers Buried at Andersonville, by Dorence Atwater. As a prisoner he kept a daily log of all Union soldiers who died in the prison for the commander, given to the U.S. government after the Civil War. [Gourley, pp.8, 172] 2) DeWitt C. McNeill, b. about Dec 18, 1845, Savannah, Wayne Co., NY, son of Robert and 2nd wife Catharine (Vosburgh, Coe) McNeill. DeWitt enlisted Sep 26, 1862 at Copake, NY, promoted from private to corporal to sergeant Co. E, 159th N. Y. Infantry. Captured Sep 19, 1864, Winchester, Virginia, released March 2, 1865 at Goldsborough, North Carolina, returned to camp May 4th, mustered out August 4, 1865 at Savannah, Georgia. He died March 16, 1868 at age 22 of illness from time spent in prison, leaving a young widow. Closer to my direct lineage, John and Henry Leonardson went off to war from Montgomery County, New York. They were brothers of Mary Eliza Leonardson (b. ca. 1832) who married William Ottman (my great-great-grandparents) of Carlisle, Schoharie County, NY. One brother came home after several years of war, while the younger sibling was killed only six months into his enlistment. 3) John D. Leonardson, b. Jan 10, 1830 in Montgomery Co., NY, son of Arent/Aaron and Lana (Gross) Leendertse/Leonardson. John enlisted Dec 14, 1861 at Lyons, NY as a musician into F Co., NY 98th Infantry, re-enlisted Jan 4, 1864, serving in siege against Petersburg and Richmond VA, mustered out Aug 31, 1865 at Richmond, VA. He died August 10, 1899, Sharon, Schoharie Co., NY. 4) Henry Leonardson, b. about 1840, Montgomery Co., NY, son of Arent/Aaron and Lana (Gross) Leendertse/Leonardson. Henry enlisted as private Jan 4, 1864 into unassigned NY 16th Heavy Artillery, transferred May 10, 1864 to D Co. NY 6th Heavy Artillery. Killed Jun 22, 1864 at Petersburg, VA. NEXT: Read Civil War, April 1865, Elmira Prison vs. Andersonville

When the Civil War came to an end with Gen. Lee’s surrender to Gen. Grant on April 9 1865, the prisoner of war camps in both the North and the South began to empty. Unfortunately, many prisoners never saw their home and loved ones again after giving the ultimate sacrifice. Though a multitude of men did make it back to their families, they took with them the emotional and physical scars of prison camp – from starvation to disease, along with the after effects of war’s emotional turmoil for all soldiers. This was a very difficult chapter to write regarding the suffering of America’s men in prison camps on both sides of the American Civil War. But I believe it is necessary to understand the depths of such tragedies as we honor and respect those of our collective ancestors who were held captive behind those gates. If only the untold suffering of humanity in war were reason enough to end all wars. As noted in my previous Homestead article, April 1865, the involvement and losses of extended ancestral relatives brings this war and its prison camps just a little closer to home. Four young men went off to war, but only one survived to live a full life. John D. Leonardson (survived all 4 years, lived to old age) and his brother Henry Leonardson (died after 6 months on the battlefield), brothers of my gr-gr-grandmother, Mary Eliza (Leonardsona) Ottman. Chauncey McNeill (died at Andersonville March 1865) and his brother DeWitt C. McNeill (died age 22 in 1868 from effects of Confederate prison camp), sons of Robert McNeill, an older brother of my ancestor, Jesse McNeill. Just the thought of Civil War prisons strikes fear into us as we pause to think about the inhumane conditions inflicted upon those confined behind the four walls. For over a century, the deplorable and deadly conditions of two major prison camps left a bitter memory for all too many - one was local Camp Chemung in Elmira, NY, a situation where truth was denied and kept from the public, with the other prison being Camp Sumter, aka Andersonville, in Georgia… equally as nefarious as its northern counterpart, each with similarities to the other, yet fraught with many differences. Elmira (aka Hellmira) was chosen for southern prisoners by Col. William Hoffman, the commissary general of prisoners in Washington, D.C. The first captured Confederate soldiers arrived at Elmira’s Barracks No.3 on July 6, 1864, with the last prisoners walking out of camp July 11, 1865. Some prisoners, dishonorably called “oathies” or “oathtakers” by fellow Confederate prisoners, were released early if they took the “oath of allegiance.” Though very few were actually released early from Elmira, those taking the oath at any prison were required to remain in the North for the duration of the war; in fact, several who took the oath were hired for jobs within the Elmira prison camp at 5 cents a day and given better rations. [Horigan, p. 32] Before their release at the end of the war, each prisoner was also required to take an oath of loyalty to the Union before being given a train ticket back home. “I, ______, do solemnly swear, in presence of Almighty God, that I will henceforth faithfully support, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, and the union of the States thereunder; and that I will, in like manner, abide by and faithfully support all acts of Congress passed during the existing rebellion with reference to slaves, so long and so far as not repealed, modified or held void by Congress, or by decision of the Supreme Court; and that I will, in like manner, abide by and faithfully support all proclamations of the President made during the existing rebellion having reference to slaves, so long and so far as not modified or declared void by decision of the Supreme Court. So help me God.” Excerpted from Abraham Lincoln’s “Proclamation of Amnesty and Reconstruction” dated December 8, 1863, wording varying in different locales. [Janowski, p. 190] Today, there are many within the Elmira community who are totally unaware of what once transpired on the ground upon which they live and walk. There are monuments, stones and plaques scattered on land which once held a Civil War prison camp, and granite markers have been placed at both the northeast and southeast corners of the prison camp. The original flagpole, on private property, was donated in 1992 to the city of Elmira. It was placed next to a stone monument on Elmira Water Board’s property near the Chemung River. The monument memorializes “the soldiers who trained at Camp Rathbun May 1861-1864 and the Confederate Prisoners of War incarcerated at Camp Chemung July 1864-July 1865.” [Horigan, pp.196-197] Those who died as prisoners are interred at Woodlawn National Cemetery in Elmira; the white gravestones of Union soldiers are rounded on top while the Confederate gravestones are pointed. One of 35 buildings (each about 100 feet long) from the prison compound, stored in pieces, will be reconstructed during 2014-2015 and set up on part of the original prison site along the river. It will serve as a museum to honor the memory of those Confederate prisoners who once struggled to survive and those who lost their lives. [WETM-TV Evening News, April 29, 2014] But monuments alone do not a story tell. The lives of our collective ancestors were forever affected by this war fought for the preservation of a united nation, and for the freedom gained by thousands of slaves. This is but one chapter in our nation’s fallible history as we face the stark realities of life 150-plus years ago. Elmira is a beautiful community established along the Chemung River on land once home to the Iroquois Nation prior to the American Revolution. Canal boats up to 60 feet long and 18 feet wide plied the local waters of Chemung Canal and the finger lakes to connect with the Erie Canal, a route of great importance in transporting both agricultural and manufactured goods throughout the state. The productivity of Elmira’s several small factories and the agricultural goods produced locally offered a quality of life that was enviable elsewhere. Yet, at times, Elmira was “referred to derisively as a ‘canal town’” because of the influx of canal workers and their unsavory character. [Elmira: Death Camp of the North, by Michael Horigan, Stackpole Books, Mechanicsburg, PA, 2002, p. 4.] Elmira’s flat land along the Chemung River was considered optimal for training volunteer soldiers. The same ground had twice held the New York State Fair during the 1850s. Foster Barracks, known as Camp Rathbun by 1862, later renamed Camp Chemung or Barracks No.3, was situated west of the village line. This area adjacent to the river, including Foster’s Pond and race track, was established as a training and embarkation center in 1861 for New York’s soldiers. It was ideal with the Erie Railway and Northern Central Railway traversing Elmira, providing transportation of men both into the city and southward to battle. Elmira’s Camp Rathbun then became an assembly ground for federal draftees in 1863. With barracks already built to house those thousands of Union soldiers, it seemed the perfect location to confine Confederate prisoners of war in 1864. “[Ausburn] Towner's history of 1892 and maps from the period indicate the camp occupied an area running about 1,000 feet (300 m) west and approximately the same distance south of a location a couple of hundred feet west of Hoffman Street and about 35 feet south of Water Street, bordered on the south by Foster's Pond, on the north bank of the Chemung River.” Lt. Col. Seth Eastman, commander of Elmira’s Camp Chemung, was informed by Col. Hoffman in Washington that he should prepare to receive Confederate prisoners. Despite Eastman’s reply that Barracks No. 3 could hold, at most, 6000 prisoners (later lowered to efficiently house 4000), Hoffman insisted that Elmira be prepared for more prisoners. Camp Chemung (Barracks No.3) was selected to house prisoners not only for its convenient location, but for the fact it already held a mess hall which could seat about 1200 to 1500 at a time. The building also housed a kitchen equipped to cook for 5000, and a bakery that could supply up to 6000 meals. Twenty new barracks were built while repairs were made on older existing buildings. A double-walled fence was also built to encompass the camp’s thirty-two acres. Guardhouses were built along these fence walls with a walkway for sentries set 4 feet below the top of the fence. The camp’s main gate was located on Water Street in Elmira while an additional gate on the south side provided access for prisoners to bathe in the Chemung River during good weather. Confusing communications were continually sent from Hoffman in Washington, with Eastman being told several times to prepare for upwards of 8-10,000 prisoners of war. Repeatedly informing Hoffman that Elmira could not handle more than 4000 to 6000 prisoners total, Camp Chemung’s numbers ultimately swelled to 12,122 prisoners. By war’s end, a total of 2950 men had died of disease and exposure, many with a lack of appropriate rations and medical care. [Horigan, p.180] Although Elmira’s death rate was 24%, it was still below that of Andersonville’s 29% where just over 45,000 prisoners were held on even less acreage. With a lack of proper buildings to house the men, A-shaped tents were used despite the coming bitter cold of northern winters. The sheer volume of prisoners, a lack of proper living quarters, poor quality of food and water, the lack of fresh fruits and vegetables, limited rations, the lack of blankets, and flooding from the river all resulted in scurvy, dysentery, typhoid, pneumonia and smallpox. As these issues served to overwhelm the limited medical staff and what little medication they could procure, death was inevitable for too many men. Those who survived Elmira’s prison often did so through their own ingenuity and the largesse of townsfolk. Rats were killed and eaten. Unfortunately, clothing for the southern prisoners was restricted to the color gray, that of their uniforms. When families sent clothing to their loved ones, if it wasn’t gray it was burned – despite the weather conditions and the need for warmer clothing. Early on, prisoners were able to purchase items from the camp sutler including foods, tobacco, writing paper and implements, clothing, etc. but even this beneficial transaction was eventually limited. Letters written home were also censored both coming and going. Yet, for decades the deplorable and deadly condition of this prison camp were denied and kept from the public. "The horrors of a camp where prisoners of war are crowded into a confined space, poorly clad, uncomfortably housed, insufficiently fed, and scantily provided with medical attendance, hospital accommodations, and other provisions for the sick, form one of the most deplorable features of any war, but none of these can apply with truth to the camp at Elmira, nor can they be attached for a moment to the reputation or become a portion of the history of the fair valley of the Chemung." [The History of Chemung County, Ausburn Towner, 1892.] In reality, it took over 130 years for researchers to begin unearthing the hidden truth about Elmira’s prison camp. These researchers have now documented the full story and stark realities of Elmira’s prison camp which have been long been silenced. Personal stories are being told of some of the thousands of Confederate men who were imprisoned, who died, and who survived. A unique tribute is In Their Honor: Soldiers of the Confederacy, The Elmira Prison Camp written by Diane Janowski, a resident of Elmira, New York. Janowski states, “This book is not about war strategy, nor conditions inside the camp - it is about how the men and boys ended up in Elmira. Where other books about the Elmira camp are very clinical, this one is very personal. Families' words and feelings show just how strong Civil War sentiments still are in 2009. That’s why I’ve written this book. You can hold this book and point to a name and say, ‘That's my great-great-great grandfather.’” The first 400 prisoners behind Elmira’s gates began their journey on July 2, 1864 from Point Lookout, Maryland. With one dying enroute, 399 entered the grounds of Elmira’s Civil War Prison Camp on July 6th at 6 a.m. They had been part of Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia, having seen the worst the war had to offer at Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg and Spotsylvania. Their experiences clearly echoed what Union Army’s William Tecumseh Sherman (considered the best field commander of the Civil War) had said more than a decade after the war: “I have seen war in all of its horrible aspects. I have seen fields devastated, homes ruined, and cities laid waste; I have seen the carnage of battle, the blood of the wounded and the cold faces of the dead looking up at the stars. That is war. War is hell.” [Horigan, p. 34] But, these prisoners of war had just entered another hell. A few men who arrived in the ensuing months were recognized by locals as former residents of Elmira or surrounding towns. Peering through the camp’s fence, townsfolk got a glimpse of the Southern rebels in their midst. The editor of Elmira’s Advertiser, Charles Fairman, noted that local townsfolk could hardly bypass the camp “…without a peep at the varmints…” [Horigan, p. 35] This curiosity even evolved into a venture where, for 10 cents, folks could observe the hated Confederate prisoners from an observatory set up opposite the camp. As much as “forty dollars per day” was made by “an enterprising Yankee at Elmira.” [Horigan, p.59] “Neighbors along the camp sold lemonade, cake, peanuts, crackers, and beer to spectators.” [Janowski, p.9] On the ninth day of prisoner occupation, an inspection was made of the premises with a mixed review. Warnings were tendered on Foster’s Pond, a stagnant liability within the compound, in need of immediate attention. The low-lying sinks/latrines near the pond were considered to be another source of disease, not to mention the permeating stench. The inspector indicated that drinking water was of good quality. Further correspondence again indicated Foster’s Pond was in desperate need of being drained to prevent disease. Shallow wells were drilled, but they were ultimately contaminated by the latrines draining into Foster’s Pond with deadly consequences. With hundreds of prisoners sent by rail to Elmira, the inevitable happened on July 16, 1864 near Shohola, PA. A major train wreck was caused by a drunken telegraph operator who signaled the prisoner-of-war train that all was clear ahead when, in fact, a coal train was actually heading their way. Messages of the coal train’s proximity had been missed by the stuporous man. The crash killed both Union and Confederate soldiers, wounding many others, while five prisoners managed to escape over the mountains, a fortuitous opportunity for them. The lack of a prison hospital equipped with competent surgeons was now sorely felt as over 80 injured men arrived at Elmira. Apparently, it took almost five weeks more before a chief surgeon was present on the premises. [Horigan, pp.43, 44] The shortage of clothing and blankets was another situation still not rectified as 3000 more prisoners were slated to arrive soon and join the 1900 already there. By the first of August 1864, the camp had officially acquired 4424 Confederate prisoners, 11 of whom had died, while two had escaped. And still they kept coming. On August 6th, Maj. Eugene Sanger of the state of Maine reported for duty as chief surgeon… that is, after the military authorities finally recognized the need of such services at Elmira. Proving the commanders had a magnanimous side, the Rev. Thomas K. Beecher of Elmira’s Park Church was granted permission to hold the first religious service inside the camp in late July. He was half-brother to Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” Her novel, published in 1852, is considered by many to be the book which set the foundation for the burgeoning anti-slavery sentiment which eventually permeated the Civil War ideology. Skilled artists have left behind their sketches which depict camp life. Rings and trinkets were made and sold by prisoners. Union officers bought many of these items, reselling them for greater profit. Those handy at carpentry skills made furniture with which the Union officers filled their homes. And the prisoners even began making the pine coffins in which to bury their own. John W. Alexander of South Carolina, writing his memoirs for family in about 1896, noted that “the guards [at Elmira] seemed to be a part of the climate: cold, calculating, and merciless. The only avenue to his soul was the greenback route, and this we were too poor to travel. …everyone able to walk was supposed to go to the cookhouse twice a day.” [Janowski, pp.35, 36] Living in tents, he and the others received their wood for the day; one stick to a tent. “As our fireplaces were only one foot wide and the wood four feet long, we had no axe – it seemed a problem, but it was soon solved.” Putting their minds to work, several men created a homemade saw out of a sheet iron band and a small file. And, with some wooden wedges, they were able to saw and split their wood to burn. [Janowski, p. 37] Taken ill with smallpox, Alexander was sent to what was considered the camp hospital. Though he recovered and was treated well by a Dr. Williams, he remained weak and wrote, “…I did know that we were starving in a land of plenty.” [p.43] After release from prison on June 23, 1865, Alexander arrived in Columbia, SC to find that “Sherman had destroyed everything along the way. All the best houses were burnt, and people gone, and those remaining were starving. Lone chimneys and dead shade trees told the tale. ...I was restored to family…on the 12th of July, 1865.” [Janowski, pp.45, 46] As of September 1, 1864, a total of 9,480 prisoners were on the rolls. Including the 115 who had died in August, a total of 126 men had died so far. Scurvy was now rampant among the prisoners for want of fresh fruits and vegetables. They were in abundant supply in the outside community, but Col. Hoffman, Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, and Union military officials in Washington were not buying. Instead, they determined that retaliation was the answer to the South’s mistreatment of Northern prisoners. With this in mind, Hoffman had already signed orders that rations for prisoners of war would be cut by 20% as of June 1, 1864. “Chronic diarrhea” was most often the term used in diagnosing prisoners who “suffered from dehydration, ulcerative colitis (a fatal infection of the lower intestinal tract), dysentery, and electrolyte imbalance.” [Horigan, p.75] With their immune systems weakened by being half-starved on an inappropriate and insufficient diet, and drinking contaminated water, the men began succumbing rapidly to the ravages of disease. As summer progressed, Elmira’s prisoners were no longer allowed to buy additional foodstuffs from the camp sutler. The men’s living conditions continued to deteriorate as the heat of summer turned into the chill of autumn. Then, winds blew in the bitter cold of a northern winter unfamiliar to the Southern men as thousands remained in tents without sufficient heat, also lacking warm clothing and blankets. And still, official approval had not been granted for Foster’s Pond to be drained, nor had additional barracks been constructed to house the prisoners, forcing them to remain in tents through the bitter winter weather. From all of this, Camp Commandant Lt. Col. Seth Eastman retired in poor health. His successor, Col. Benjamin Tracy (born in Apalachin and educated in Owego where he had practiced law), arrived to take charge of Camp Chemung on September 19, 1864. And it was an overcrowded camp to which Tracy came with its climbing death rate due to the “…lack of sanitation, prevalence of disease, a shortage of proper housing, margined rations, a paucity of clothing, and inadequate hospital facilities… all the result of inaction on the part of those in command in Elmira and (to a much greater extent) Washington.” [Horigan, p.89] With starvation and disease now rampant among the prisoners, substantial quantities of beef designated for the camp to improve rations were unconscionably rejected as unfit by inspectors and, instead, sold to community meat markets. Those who survived imprisonment, like Walter D. Addison, later recalled: “No coffee, no tea, no vegetables, but a few beans to make tasteless watery soup consisting of the liquid in which the pork had been boiled.” James Marion Howard also recalled that “our soup would usually be made of onions, rotten hulls, roots and dirt… but of all the soups, this rotten onion soup has the worst odor… This, with a piece of bread, was our ration at 3 p.m. And this was our ration every day.” Prisoner James B. Stamp remembered that in the winter months the “insufficiency of food increased, and in many instances, prisoners were reduced to absolute suffering. All the rats that could be captured were eaten, and on one occasion a small dog that had followed a wood hauler into the camp was caught and prepared as food.” Another prisoner, G. T. Taylor from Alabama stated, “Elmira was nearer Hades than I thought any place could be made by human cruelty.” [Horigan, pp. 100, 101] Survivor, R. B. Ewan, recalled 43 years later the “sport of running… [rats] out of their holes. Our Mart of Trade was in the center of the ground, and at 10 o’clock every day dressed rats on boards and tin plates…were offered for five cents and sometimes more.” [Horigan, p.140] Sooner or later every prisoner contemplates escaping his confines, and those in Elmira were no exception. However, designated spies infiltrated the Confederates, learning of and reporting on escape plans to the camp officials. Digging the tunnels was no easy task without proper equipment, not to mention the weakened and malnourished condition of the diggers, but it was accomplished. Unfortunately for the men involved, 28 tunnels were discovered before escape, but one remained concealed. Thus, on October 6, 1864, ten men escaped before this tunnel was also discovered. Several swam across the south side of the Chemung River to Mount Zoar. From this vantage point, six men (in three paired groups, each group not aware of the others) looked down on their former confines as they watched the frantic search for them take place. Then they turned their backs on Elmira and simply made their way back home. One man, Berry Benson, related years later that he found corn and apples on a nearby farm before walking west to Big Flats and then to Corning from whence he headed south to his home. Two other men walked to Ithaca, Varna, and then to Auburn where they obtained jobs. Saving their money, they eventually took a train to New York City and on to Baltimore before walking the rest of the way home. Nine men made it safely back home, but the tenth was never heard from again. Their escape is considered “the most spectacular…in the annals of prison camps administered by the Union during the Civil War.” [Horigan, p.113] Others made it out of camp at various times under the watchful eyes of Union guards. One prisoner stole a Union sergeant’s ankle-length winter overcoat and simply walked away from all the wretchedness through the main gate. Another prisoner managed to leave with a forged pass. Yet another man, known only as Buttons, [supposedly] hid himself in a coffin with the lid secured only lightly. When the wagon of coffins reached the cemetery, he popped the lid, jumped off the wagon and ran full speed into the woods. The driver was speechless and too shocked to stop the escape of someone presumed to be ready for burial! The identity of “Buttons” has been determined to be Thomas A. Botts through the memoirs of fellow prisoner, John W. Alexander. [Janowski, pp.26-29, 40, 212] Supposedly, Buttons escaped to rejoin the Confederate army. However, in tracking his military records, Janowski notes that, after capture in battle, Botts was moved from Virginia to Elmira on August 17, 1864. Botts died at Elmira May 14, 1865, two weeks before President Johnson issued orders to release all prisoners. Janowski considers the story of Buttons’ escape a total fabrication as published in the “Confederate Veteran” magazine in 1926. [Janowski, p.27] October, the month of escapes, held death for 276 more Confederates, men who were not so fortunate. This was the highest monthly total of any Northern prison, now bringing the total deceased to 857. A war of words had been taking place between prison officials, inspectors, the media, and the powers that be in Washington regarding the conditions at the camp and how to rectify them, and whether problems even existed. In November, Dorothea Dix, superintendant of Women Nurses for the Union, praised the Elmira prison for adequately providing all provisions and necessities to prisoners. November’s deaths numbered 207, second only to Chicago’s prison death rate that month. Denials were made by military personnel on learning of leaks to the media about the horrible conditions within the prison. In fact, the Elmira Advertiser’s editorials informed its readership that “The Confederates confined at Elmira were treated with all the care and consideration that such persons are entitled to receive by Christian nations in any part of the world. …[the] rations are of a good quality and abundant in quantity..” When this was published on December 2, 1864, 994 prisoners had died since July; the total figure at the end of December climbing to 1263 dead. [Horigan, pp. 102-103] So much went wrong at Elmira’s Civil War prison, and this brief column hardly provides adequate space to enumerate all that which transpired. Documentation also discloses that the surgeon-in-chief, Major Sanger of Maine, used his position in a chilling manner. Prisoners later recalled his cold and calloused demeanor, and inappropriate treatment of patients with opium, causing the demise of many who were ill, yet no charges were filed against him. His own writing indicates his attitude: “I now have charge of 10,000 Rebels a very worthy occupation for a patriot…but I think I have done my duty having relieved 386 of them of all earthly sorrow in one month.” [Horigan, p.129] yet, on the other hand, Maj. Sanger wrote no less than nine reports with complaints about the life-threatening problems facing prisoners in the camp at Elmira. Action was eventually taken to correct some of the issues, while at the same time Sanger took blame for many failings - some deserved, some not. At the time of his formal complaints, there were 9,063 prisoners in camp that October. Of these, 3,873 were in barracks while the balance of 5,190 men were still assigned to 1,038 tents. Thirty-five barracks were planned to be built; but, with a late start on construction, appropriate housing for the prisoners left too many in tents to endure winter’s bitter cold. [Horigan, p.132] The construction on better housing facilities finally began in October. However, with a lack of lumber supplies, construction was delayed. When barracks were built, it became apparent before winter’s end that hasty construction with green lumber contributed to cracks between the boards, and boards that warped, etc. To complicate matters further, the existing barracks also began to fall into disrepair. Late November and early December of 1864 saw over 2000 men still in tents. By Christmas, 900 some men were still living in tents in the frigid winter weather, without adequate heat or sustenance, let alone warm clothing or enough blankets to keep warm. Drainage of Foster’s Pond began after a notice issued October 23, 1864 by the secretary of war, Col. Hoffman. However, work on the drainage sluice, done by prisoners, was slow in progress due to their own poor health, multiple delays from severe winter weather, quicksand, extremely coarse gravel, and occasional flooding. The work was completed by January 1, 1865, but 1263 Confederate prisoners had already died, many from drinking contaminated water from the sinks/latrines which leached into the pond and seeped into the shallow wells. Heavy rains contributed to flooding of the low land, while bitter ice-cold sleet and snow also took their toll on the men. With many still in tents, the untold human suffering of these prisoners is appalling to contemplate as they had to deal not only with the frigid elements but malnutrition from lack of a proper diet. In fact, “the winter of 1864-65 was one of the harshest on record.” [Janowsky, p. 25] As prisoner Marcus Toney recalled 40 years later, they only had two blankets per bunk for the bitter winter weather. Each bunk was “wide enough to sleep two medium-sized men…[but four men slept in each bunk while] two of [the prisoners] slept with their heads toward the east, and two with their heads toward the west… and when ready to change positions, one would call out, ‘All turn to the right’; and the next call would be, ‘All turn to the left.’” [Horigan, p.133] Another sad chapter in Elmira’s prison history is the fact that several businesses and citizens’ relief committees attempted to send clothing and outer coats to prisoners for the winter. But, due to Secretary of War Stanton’s initial call for retaliation in April 1864, and his initiation of extended and complicated bureaucratic red tape, efforts to aid the prisoners were given up in despair. With frustrating military regulations established by his commanders, Eastman, as head of the camp, denied clearance to local citizens who also tried to bring aid to the prisoners. It was clear to many that their efforts were being thwarted by those wishing to exact vengeance against the Southern captives as retaliation for the Confederacy’s harsh treatment of Union prisoners. “Deprived of sufficient rations…and of clothing and blankets that remained in warehouses in Washington, the prison camp’s January 1865 death rate reached 285,” for a total of 1548. [Horigan, p.158] Even as smallpox compounded the prisoners’ suffering throughout January and February, the city of Elmira held its festive Grand Military Ball in late February. Six days later, the prisoners’ death toll for February was noted to be 426, an average of 15 per day, bringing the total to 1874. [Horigan, p.166] Yet, Fairman’s editorial in his Advertiser noted that “the sick are being taken care of… [and] they have nothing to complain of.” [Horigan, p.166] Many of the sick were still actually in tents, ignored by medical staff, though conditions for those in the “hospital” were actually not much better. Finally, an order from the War Department on February 4, 1865 directed the camp to prepare 3000 prisoners of war to be transferred south for a prisoner exchange. Up until that time, this was not a viable option for President Lincoln and Gen. Grant as they felt it would simply recycle more men back into the Confederate armies to prolong the war. Col. Tracy sent 500 prisoners south on February 13, with 500 more leaving on February 20. By the end of March, 3042 Confederates had been sent south for exchange. By April 1st, the camp housed only 5054 prisoners with the total death toll now having reached 2465. Then came news in early April that Gen. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia was losing strength and there might possibly be surrender ahead. Since Gen. Grant’s siege had isolated Petersburg and Richmond, many believed the war couldn’t last much longer. Sure enough, further word came north that Robert E. Lee had had no other option but to surrender on April 9, 1865 to Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox. And 5054 men in Elmira sighed in relief to think that their last days of prison life were in sight. At the end of April, the death toll for the month was 267 as the overall total reached 2732. The balance of men remaining in camp was now down to 4754. The month of May saw 1,037 more Southerners released while 131 men died in May, for a total of 2863 dead. On May 31st, only 3610 prisoners remained behind the gates. The final group of 256 Confederates left Hellmira’s confines on July 11, 1865. Some, too ill to travel, were transferred to Elmira’s Union Hospital where 16 more died. The final count of deceased prisoners reached 2950. Barracks No. 3 was next used to muster out Union soldiers, and in February 1866 the saga of Elmira’s Union camp ended when the camp’s buildings were auctioned off and removed. Janowski, however, notes inconsistencies in various sources which report “the death toll anywhere from 2950 to 2998. I use the 2963 figure…as it is the last grave marker number at Woodlawn National Cemetery.” [Janowski, p.11] Earlier in June 1865 following his release, prisoner James Hoffman returned home to Virginia only “to find destruction, waste and poverty… There was no money; the start must be made from the bottom. I went to work with a will.” [Horigan, p.178] The South as they had known it was not the same and never would be. And the legacy of Elmira’s prison was summed up in one word by the prisoners themselves, “Hellmira.” Author Michael Horigan presents a long list of well-documented facts that place blame on the federal government and military officials beginning with Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton’s retaliatory efforts backed by the war department’s highest officials. The list also includes the 20% reduction in rations as of June 1864, the determination to house up to 10,000-plus prisoners at Elmira when the facilities could only reasonably hold 4,000, the lack of any medical staff for the first five weeks, the long delay in rectifying drainage of Foster’s Pond, much needed additional hospital barracks and improved camp facilities, no medical staff to treat the prisoners injured in the Shohola train wreck, Col. Tracy’s beef inspection order which resulted in a substantial reduction of meat available for prisoners, delayed construction of additional barracks with prisoners remaining in tents throughout the winter, deliberate denial of winter clothing to the prisoners, the multi-level clashes between military leadership, and much more. [Horigan, pp. 191-192] PART B: Andersonville As noted above, Elmira is often compared to the death camp of Andersonville in Georgia. “Yet the most striking contrast between Andersonville and Elmira should be apparent even to the most casual observer,” wrote historian Michael Horigan, author of Elmira: Death Camp of the North. “Elmira, a city with excellent railroad connections, was located in a region where food, medicine, clothing, building materials, and fuel were in abundant supply. None of this could be said of Andersonville. Hence, Elmira became a symbol of death for different reasons.” [Horigan, p.193] The Dix-Hill Cartel of prisoner exchanges broke down in 1862 when Jefferson Davis’s Confederacy refused to exchange captured black soldiers. Indicating that they would send the black soldiers back into slavery and kill their white officers, Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton put a halt to prisoner exchanges. This, in turn, vastly increased the numbers of prisoners on both sides with permanent prisoner-of-war camps established. The search for southern land upon which to build a camp to hold Union prisoners led to a very small village in Georgia – Anderson Station. It was considered ideal for its proximity to the Central of Georgia Railroad, yet isolated enough to prevent Union troops from raiding the camp to free their countrymen. Nor would it be easy for those who might successfully escape to find their way back north across the Mason-Dixon line. The land was also chosen for Sweetwater Creek at the base of the hill. Thus, a 16-1/2 acre rectangular compound to hold prisoners was built, albeit without barracks to house them. Located a quarter of a mile from Anderson Station, Camp Sumter was 11 miles northwest of Americus and 60 miles from Macon in Macon County, Georgia. Renamed Andersonville by guards, it has been considered the absolute worst of Confederate prisons. After only two weeks of construction, its doors opened on February 27, 1864. Andersonville became a living hell for the blue-coats (Yankees) who had the misfortune of entering the gates of its double-palisade fence. Pine trees cut by slaves were planted upright, 5 feet below the surface with the remaining 15-17 feet above ground for the fences. For good measure, a third “fence” was set up about 15 or so feet in from the inner palisade. Called the deadline, it was an “open” fence about 3-4 feet high with posts upon which thin board railings were attached. Touch it or cross under it with any part of your body invited a deadly accurate shot by a sentry. Lumber and nails were in short supply in the Confederacy, and thus not available to build barracks to house prisoners. But, men were sent from other over-crowded prisons anyway and left to their own devices for making shelters with many sleeping on the open ground with no protection from the weather or insects. Many early prisoners came from Belle Isle, an island on the James River near Richmond, Virginia. They had been in tents while other prisoners removed from Richmond had been housed in warehouses - the lucky ones with a roof over their heads. Sent by rail, the men were squeezed into railroad boxcars or open cars without much room to move about. When they arrived at Andersonville, they spread out in search of an area they could call “home” – not an easy task as the number of prisoners increased. Friends and men from the same units tended to stay together to set up their home on the open ground. As of April 1, 1864, there were 7160 prisoners which, by May 8, had increased by 5,787 men. Also, by May 8, 728 had died, 13 had escaped with 7 recaptured for a total occupancy of 12,213 on a little less than 17 acres. [Burnett, p. 5] Eventually, the camp was enlarged to 27 acres, still an insufficient amount of land to house the volume of prisoners confined between its walls. With no buildings or protective shelters on the premises, the men built “shebangs” (from the Irish word shebeen “which refers to an illegal place to serve alcohol”). [Gourley, p. 48] Huts or lean-tos were made from whatever logs, branches, or brush had been left inside the compound when the palisade walls were built. Those who had blankets used them along with their greatcoats and anything else available to make a shelter from the southern sun and its heat. Some used their ingenuity to take make bricks out of the clay. Others dug small shelters, i.e. burrows, into the slope of the upper hill. And everywhere they went fleas, lice, ticks, flies and mosquitoes pestered their bodies. In fact, prisoner Bjorn Alakson said, “Killing lice became a game and would help pass the tedious time.” [Burnett, p. 16] At least once a day, sometimes more often, the men worked at debugging themselves. If they didn’t, the innumerable pests attacked every inch of their hosts, eating into their weakened bodies, causing illness and death. [Glennan, p. 46] As the unrelenting sun beat down on them, with vermin a constant pest, and the lack of proper nourishing rations and the drinking of contaminated water all led to the spread of disease, particularly scurvy, dysentery, diarrhea, smallpox, yellow fever, infections and gangrene with resultant high death rates. The sinks/latrines were set parallel to the creek with the inevitable runoff rapidly contaminating the creek, all too quickly creating an unhealthy lagoon, not to mention all-encompassing stench. One can only imagine the filth and deplorable conditions the men were forced to live in. As Irishman Ed Glennan, author of “Surviving Andersonville,” wrote (original spelling retained), “Our treatment was well Known in the North but Thousands & thousands did not believe it Possibly in a Christian Country that men, no matter how Brutal, Could or would treat their Fellow man as we were treated…& next My Friends I Blamed our own Government for leaving us there. They well Knew at Washington what we were Suffering, what we were Enduring & the Mortality amongst us. Yes, I Blamed them. We had left Home & the comforts of Home Life to take our Chances of war, to Bare our Breasts between the Bulletts of Rebels & the Bosom of the nation willing to take our changes of Death on the Battle Feild or Come Back maimed for Life & as we Had stepped Forward to save our Country in Her Hour of Need & Danger so also did we Expect our Country to Extend Her Hand to us in our Hour of need. Danger, no, we thought not of Danger, give us our Liberty, give us our Freedom from the Rebell Hell Horde & Place us in the Face of Danger & we ask no Hand but the Hand of God & our Hands with Gallant Comrades to Back & we will Face Danger & take the Consequences. Like men in Danger then we ask no Help but we are in need, yes, Deathly need, Daily, Hourly & where is the strong Hand of our Government in Her need.” [Glennan, p. 78] Not knowing that the prisoner exchanges had been stopped, nor why, the men maintained an eager, albeit futile, hope of being exchanged. [Glennan, p.80] Food and containers to hold the limited rations the men received were also in short supply, or often non-existent. Rations, given out once a day, included rough-ground cornmeal with the cobs and husks ground in (damaging to the human digestive system if they were not picked out), beans or peas, and occasionally 1-2 oz. of meat which often was rancid and covered in ashes. It was up to the men to find water. Some prisoners were able to dig small wells up on the hill for fresh, albeit muddy, water compared to the stinking and filthy creek water. Rations were put into men’s hats or shirt sleeves if they had no containers, which most did not. How it was fixed to be eaten was up to each prisoner. Sometimes, a little water, albeit contaminated, was added to create a cornmeal mush to fry – that is, if one could scrabble up a bit of wood to burn and had a container in which to cook. Some prisoners rented out their cooking utensils to those in need. Even these limited rations were reduced as the population increased. At times, prisoners did not report a deceased man from their unit for as long as possible in order to obtain his rations to split amongst the balance of the group. Trading of rations for wood, or other items for food, became a necessity. Many fell back on trades in which they had been employed prior to their military service, or learned new skills to help pass the time. Those who could carve objects from wood scraps had something to sell or barter for food. They could send and receive mail, or receive packages from the outside world, but it was all subject to inspection and/or confiscation by guards. New prisoners who arrived were called “fresh fish.” They entered with a stunned look as they faced a sea of ghost-like men staring back at them. The starving inmates were gaunt, skeletal thin and sickly, with shabby rags for clothing, though many were reduced to wearing very little if anything. Finding a place to set up your own “home” was not easy. Neighborhoods meandered along winding “streets” where housing and “businesses” were established. If you “owned” a site with a well you had dug, you could sell the water. Obviously, higher ground was more valuable than the low-lying areas near the contaminated bog and creek. Those prisoners who were able to “make the best of it” with a resilient attitude survived fared better than those who succumbed to depression and resignation over their deplorable surroundings. Stealing by gang members of the Raiders was rampant until one new prisoner was robbed and severely beaten. As he cried out while being viciously attacked for his watch, other men came to his aid, an effort which saved his life. A seasoned soldier who had spent two years on the battlefield, he was unafraid of retaliation as he appealed to the guards. The commander, Maj. Henry Wirz, was furious at the men who had attacked their own, a violation of unspoken prison camp mores, and would not send in rations until the situation was cleared up. Prison justice was carried out by the Regulators, a gang which tried to protect the weaker and helpless. They sought out the Raiders and engaged them in an intense physical fight, all men being in an already weakened physical state from poor health. As the Regulators captured each Raider member, they were brought to the guards to be held while the remaining prisoners cheered. Put on trial, over 100 Raiders were found guilty by a jury of peers with the six leaders sentenced to be hung. The others had to run the gauntlet when they were put back into the “pen” - beatings by their fellow prisoners as they tried to run through the tight double line. Many Raiders were injured from running the gauntlet, and several died from their wounds. But, the looting and violence within the camp promptly ceased. Plans for escape were always on the prisoners’ minds, but with the two palisade fences set so deep, tunneling was not always the best option. Even when prisoners did escape, the guards sent dogs into the forest after them where they typically treed the prisoners, or tore into those who were not so fortunate as to be capable of climbing trees. Escape simply wasn’t worth the effort. During a fierce storm in August 1864, lightning struck a spot on the hill and caused a spring to bubble up. Men were able to drink from what they felt was a heaven-sent fresh flow of water. Unfortunately, the heavy rains of that storm also washed much of the filth on the slopes down into the bog and creek, making the contamination there even worse. In 1902 a former prisoner, James Madison Page, returned to Camp Sumter to pay tribute to his former fellow prisoners. With a young boy as his guide, he was taken to Providence Springs, as the men had named it in 1864, and saw that it was still flowing nearly 40 years later. [Gourley, p.168-169] By early June 1864, the number of prisoners had reached 20,000, double the capacity the camp was originally intended to hold. Maj. Wirz expanded the prison with a 10-acre addition which opened July 1st, though the prison continued to be severely overcrowded as the number of prisoners reached a nadir of 33,114 that August. In September 1864, several thousand men were taken from the prison to other locations in preliminary steps between the United States and the Confederacy for a prisoner exchange. Any man able to walk was transferred out, but about 5000 men who were too ill remained behind. More continued to be added to Andersonville, remaining through the end of the Civil War in April 1865. Unfortunately, the elements, lack of sanitation, and insufficient nourishing rations continued to wreak havoc on the remaining prisoners. [American Civil War: Andersonville Prison, by Kennedy Hickman at As noted above, my extended relative, Chauncey McNeill, arrived soon after his capture in November 1864 and died March 5, 1865 – just a month before the war’s end, one more sad statistic of war. Ultimately, a total of 45,615 men had been confined at Andersonville. August 23, 1864 had the highest recorded number of deaths in one day at 127 men. With a total of 12,913 having died as prisoners, about 29%, this figure represents about 40% of all Union POW deaths. [Glennan, p.179] Commandant of Camp Sumter, Maj. Henry Wirz, was put on trial by the United States government after the war ended. With his attorneys not allowed to present much in the way of a defense to prove that he was essentially following orders of his military superiors, he was found guilty and sentenced to death by hanging. Many of his orders had come down from above by those who were not brought to justice, though injustices were definitely meted out by his own decisions. To his credit, Wirz had sent letters requesting aid, additional supplies and rations for the prisoners, to no avail. What many at the time also failed to understand, and did not want to hear, was that the South was in dire straits during Andersonville’s existence. With plantations, cropland and railroad lines destroyed by the Union armies, what crops did get harvested were often unable to be shipped out to be processed for consumption. The result was that many crops rotted in the fields or in storehouses. The war had made its own path of destruction, thus creating a lack of grains and food available to feed either the Confederate armies or their Northern prisoners. Without regular exchanges, the prisoner population continued to grow. Whereas the starvation and disease rampant in the Elmira prison has been shown to be the result of military orders from the Secretary of War Edwin Stanton on down, the dire situation at Andersonville was caused more by the effects of war on the land - a grim situation any way you look at it. To their credit, those who survived the war and any of the numerous prison camps went on to rejoin their families, to regain much of their health, and to lead productive lives within their respective communities. Some of the men, however, never fully recovered their health and died from disease or afflictions suffered from wounds or imprisonment as evidenced by my extended relative, DeWitt C. McNeill, who died about three years after the war ended from disease contracted in war. Even Ed Glennan who wrote “Surviving Andersonville,” continued to suffer the effects of ill health due to his knee injury from a minie` ball on the battlefield and scurvy from imprisonment for the rest of his life. We are forever indebted to the brave men and women who have fought in all of our nation’s wars, and to those who have paid the ultimate sacrifice with their lives. May we ever know that, though “war is hell” as Gen. Sherman once said, there are freedoms we have enjoyed in our United States of America which are unknown to those in many other nations around the world. To all of our servicemen and women, we give a heartfelt “Thank you!” BOOK SOURCES (which I read): *April 1865: The Month That Saved America, Jay Winik; New York: HarperCollins, 2006. *Elmira: Death Camp of the North, by Michael Horigan, Stackpole Books, Mechanicsburg, PA, 2002. *In Their Honor: Soldiers of the Confederacy, The Elmira Prison Camp by Diane Janowski, New York History Review Press, 2009. *Surviving Andersonville: One Prisoner’s Recollections of the Civil War’s Most Notorious Camp, by Ed Glennan, edited by David A. Ranzan, McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, Jefferson, NC, 2013. *The Horrors of Andersonville: Life and Death inside a Civil War Prison, Catherine Gourley, Twenty-First Century Books (division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.), Minneapolis, MN, 2010. *The Prison Camp at Andersonville, National Park Civil War Series, Text by William G. Burnett, pub. by Eastern National, 1995.

It’s common knowledge that spring is my favorite season! I love earth’s awakening from those long and dreary winter days… though this past winter seemed like it just didn’t want to release its hold on the cold and snow. But now, the sun shines brighter, the sky is bluer, and there’s an obvious warmth that’s beginning to penetrate every fiber of every living thing. There may be a good deal of rain mixed in now ‘n then; but, with that rain, slowly and surely new growth takes shape as tiny leaves, flower buds, and new blades of grass begin to emerge. The cold blanket of snow has been thrown off, the creeks and rivers flow abundantly along their way, and sparkling gems of color begin to explode. It’s a seasonal dance featuring the debutant of spring dressed in her finest! Drink in the pleasure of every facet of spring… from the sylvan palette of leaves in multitudinous shades of green, yellow and purple… to blossoms of white, pink, yellow, red, blue and every shade in between… to birds with their various colors and lilting tunes… to skies wrapped in shades of azure with clouds from white to deep gray… to shades of pink, purple, orange and red at sunrise and sunset… to the velvet black night skies of sparkling diamonds… to spring showers bearing fresh aromas as they saturate and nourish the plants and soil… to the tantalizing and aromatic blossoms from lilacs, roses, sweet peas, irises, daffodils, lilies of the valley… and so much more. “See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth, the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land. The fig tree forms its early fruit; the blossoming vines spread their fragrance…” (Song of Solomon 2:11-13a) Enjoy creation’s blessing in every sense of sight and sound, taste and smell, for “[God] has made everything beautiful in its time!” (Ecclesiastes 3:11a) Spring’s Debut Linda A. Roorda At the dawning of spring’s debut The earth awakens from wintry slumber She yawns and stretches, throwing off covers Changing her gown from white to sylvan green. ~ She welcomes showers of refreshing dew As fragrant aromas drift on gentle breeze While life’s renewal and emerging growth Bring bright adornment for the bleak and barren. ~ Slowly she dons her delicate gown Until she’s covered in brilliant hues With sunlight’s rays streaming their warmth She lifts her face to absorb their glow. ~ Regaled in finery like delicate silk She extends a brush to paint her palette With every shade of the rainbow bright Her crowning glory like entwining tresses. ~ As we gaze in awe at the transformation From sleeping beauty to splendor arrayed Like multi-hued gems that sparkle and shine Is spring’s debut, prepared for the dance. ~~

I gotta admit... these posts are hilarious! I'll make a stab at my ideas of yum since I can't eat any of these items anymore - mustard only on hotdogs, no chili, no relish, no onions, definitely NO ketchup!! And NO mayo, gravy or anything else on french fries - just salt for the purist LOL! Syrup on breakfast sausage - absolutely not! But a big yes to homemade Dutch Balkenbrij covered with syrup like my mom-in-law used to make after a cow was butchered!! (It's like scrapple from the PA Dutch who are Deutsch, aka great German peoples, but NOT Dutch from Netherlands like me and my late hubby.) And yes, dark chocolate is the best! How I wish I could have some!! Grated carrots in salads, not small chunks. Miracle Whip? Nah! And how could I forget a favorite I long for - Vita pickled herring!! There's the Dutch in me - miss that sweet/sour raw pickled herring with onions! LOL!