Linda Roorda

December 5th is a day my/our Dutch ancestors celebrated Saint Nicholas Day or Eve, part of traditional European Christmas celebrations for centuries. My cousin Sytske Visscher in the Netherlands shared that “St. Nicolas Day/Sinterklaas Day is celebrated on December 5, or the weekend before or after. According to the myth, the Bishop of Myra in Turkey (St. Nicolas) was born on December 6 and started to give presents to the poor members of his congregation on the evening before, December 5. Families nowadays decide to celebrate the weekend before or after the official day. Especially celebrating with only adults can better be organized on a weekend (Friday or Saturday evening) when most people do not have to go to work the next day. Many not only give presents but also make poems to say something to the receiver of the present about what happened to him or her in the last year.” I think Christmas is everyone’s favorite time of year, especially a white Christmas! Right?! Even shopping begins in earnest the day after Thanksgiving. But many of our current holiday traditions either changed dramatically or began only in the 19th century. Writing in the “Broader View Weekly” local newspaper in December 2012, I explored the origins of many of our American Christmas traditions. The Dutch word “Sinterklaas” for Saint Nicholas is considered the origin of our American “Santa Claus” with Washington Irving and Clement C. Moore helping to make him who he is today. The earliest writing in America of a figure resembling our modern Santa can be found in Washington Irving’s satire of Dutch culture. In “History of New York” published in 1809, Irving writes in chapter IX: "At this early period…hanging up a stocking in the chimney on St. Nicholas eve…is always found in the morning miraculously filled; for the good St. Nicholas has ever been a great giver of gifts, particularly to children." Clement C. Moore immortalized St. Nicholas in “’Twas The Night Before Christmas.” In this ode to St. Nick, he appears on December 24th, Christmas Eve in America, not the traditional St. Nicholas Day/Eve of December 5 or December 6. Moore’s poem, published anonymously in a Troy, New York newspaper on December 23, 1823, promotes a new appearance to the original lean St. Nicholas: “He had a broad face and a little round belly…He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf…[with a] "sleigh full of Toys" [and] "eight tiny reindeer…[as] Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound." The two original reindeer names of Donder and Blixem were later changed to Donner and Blitzen. Once again, the Dutch influence in the former New Netherlands was involved as “donder” means thunder and “bliksem” means lightning. While Irving and Moore both present the jolly gift giver as Saint Nicholas, political cartoonist Thomas Nast is considered the first to refer to “Santa Claus” in his illustration for the January 3, 1863 edition of “Harpers Weekly.” President Lincoln had requested that Nast depict St. Nicholas visiting the Union troops. Nast’s illustration shows Santa Claus sitting on his sleigh at a U.S. Army camp, handing out gifts in front of a “Welcome Santa Claus” sign. Another treasured tradition of our modern Christmas is Charles Dickens’ short story, “A Christmas Carol,” written as a commentary on the greed of Victorian England. Available in bookstores the week before Christmas 1843, it sold very well, never being out of print since. Scrooge has the distinction of being one of the most well-known literary characters. But what do we care… Bah, humbug! Our decorated Christmas tree comes from German traditions with Queen Victoria’s husband Prince Albert putting up the first decorated tree at Windsor Castle in 1841. Based on illustrations of this event published in America in 1849, Christmas trees then became fashionable on this side of the “pond.” Small candles were used to light the tree, with popcorn and cranberry strings typically used for decoration. From the religious aspect, Christmas celebrations differed in many ways based on national origin. I found it interesting to learn that Christmas celebrations were outlawed in Boston by the Puritans in the mid to late 17th century with fines for violations, while the Jamestown, Virginia settlers enjoyed their merry celebrations under Capt. John Smith. After the American Revolution, Americans looked down on English traditions, including Christmas. Apparently, Congress was even in session on December 25, 1789! In fact, Christmas did not become a federal holiday until Congress declared it such on June 26, 1870. By the late 19th century, celebrating Christmas was made popular through children’s books and women’s magazines. Church Sunday School classes began encouraging celebrations, and families were decorating Christmas trees with everyone “knowing” Santa Claus delivered gifts on Christmas Eve, traditions which have been carried on into the 21st century. Other popular traditions we all look forward to include decorating our homes and trees, baking scrumptious special treats, singing carols, and either making or shopping for just the right gift for each special person on our list. But, alas, the years have also taken a simple celebration in honor of Jesus’ birth and made it into a highly marketed holiday, one often filled with ostentatious materialism. Personally, I prefer to step back to the simpler traditions of my Dutch ancestry and childhood home, one without “all the trappings” and media frenzy. With my dad being a first generation Dutch-American, we veered from Dutch tradition in some ways. We maintained Christmas Day with a morning church service and a big family dinner; but, our gift-giving was held the Saturday before Christmas, not the Dutch traditional day of December 5. My husband’s Dutch family opened gifts on Christmas Eve as they had Christmas morning worship service too, but we decided on Christmas morning for our kids to open gifts. My first and last adoration of Santa Claus came the Christmas I was 5 years old when Santa visited my grandparents in Clifton, New Jersey. We three oldest granddaughters shyly sat on his lap to share our wants. Afterwards, my grandmother took us to an upstairs window to watch Santa and his reindeer leave. All I saw was a car with red tail lights driving away between the snowbanks. At that moment, I was crushed and disillusioned, and just knew there was absolutely no Santa Claus because, despite dressing the part, he did not have a sleigh and reindeer! After all, everyone’s favorite reindeer is Rudolph with his nose so bright! Supposedly written by Robert L. May for his daughter when her mother was dying of cancer, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” was actually written in 1939 for his employer, Montgomery Ward, as a Christmas book given out free to customers. Though May’s wife did die around the time he wrote the story, he read it to his 4-year-old daughter as he worked on it simply to ensure it held a child’s interest. With memories of his own childhood, May decided on a tale with roots in “The Ugly Duckling” and the taunts he had suffered as a child. Poor Rudolph was ostracized by other reindeer for being different, having an obvious physical abnormality… a glowing red nose. No one else had one! Regardless of his defect, Rudolph thrived under his parents’ love, overcame his disability and the taunts to become a responsible young deer! And then one foggy night, Santa noticed how Rudolph’s nose shone through the dark, and asked him to lead the team of reindeer pulling his sleigh on Christmas Eve! How excited and honored Rudolph must have felt! We’ve all been blessed with special Christmas memories over the years. While visiting my mom at Elderwood nursing home in the past, she shared that her mother had always put up and decorated a large Christmas tree in their front parlor. It was a big change for her to learn that her new husband was not so inclined to such displays due to his more austere Dutch upbringing. With limited decorations and no trees until my mid-teens when my dad finally gave in to the pleading of his six kids, I have found it difficult to step out of that mold. Yet, I have enjoyed putting up a tree with lights and decorations when our three children were young. And now, since my mother-in-law gave me her ceramic tree the Christmas before she passed away, I am honored to share her generosity in this smaller and simpler display. My favorite Christmas memory was when my husband, Ed, farmed with his dad. With finances tight, I usually sewed clothes for all of us. But, one year I also made doll beds for each of our children by taking free boxes from the local grocery store, gluing the bottoms together, and covering them with wood-grain contact paper. My step-mother gave our three children a Cabbage-Patch type girl or boy doll she had made, while my grandmother sewed clothes and blankets for each doll. And our kids could not have been happier! Our local churches do not have a Christmas morning service like Ed and I grew up with, though we have enjoyed the local Christmas Eve candlelight services and singing of favorite carols. We also began a tradition of reading the Christmas story with our children before they opened gifts on Christmas morning. And another favorite of our family has been the TV special, “A Charlie Brown Christmas” by Charles M. Schulz. With the busy holiday shopping extravaganza and commercialization, I think we sometimes lose a little of the wonder of that very first Christmas. “Narrator: It was finally Christmastime, the best time of the year. The houses were strung with tiny colored lights, their windows shining with a warm yellow glow only Christmas could bring. The scents of pine needles and hot cocoa mingled together, wafting through the air, and the sweet sounds of Christmas carols could be heard in the distance. Fluffy white snowflakes tumbled from the sky onto a group of joyful children as they sang and laughed, skating on the frozen pond in town. Everyone was happy and full of holiday cheer. That is, everyone except for Charlie Brown…” “Charlie (to Linus): ‘I think there must be something wrong with me. I just don’t understand Christmas, I guess. I might be getting presents and sending Christmas cards and decorating trees and all that, but I’m still not happy. I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel…’” “Later, after a day of frustrations, Charlie says: ‘I guess you were right Linus; I shouldn’t have picked this little tree. Everything I do turns into a disaster. I guess I don’t really know what Christmas is about. Isn’t there anyone who understands what Christmas is all about?’” “Linus: ‘Sure, I can tell you what Christmas is all about.’ [Walking to the center of the stage, Linus speaks:] ‘And there were in the same country Shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone ‘round about them, and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not! For behold, I bring you tidings of great joy which will be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you. You shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in the manger.’ And suddenly, there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace, good will toward men.’” [Luke 2:8-14] Did you notice Linus drops his blanket? He knew who to trust. And, for me and my family, that’s what Christmas is all about… As we begin to celebrate this Christmas season, share your special memories!

Gotta admit, my favorite of the above is Little Drummer Boy, but by King & Country:

Do we remember what it was like to view the world through the eyes of a child? Sometimes yes, but a lot of times no … too often, I see the world through the lens of adulthood, from various angles and tints of the life that’s come my way. This poem came to me a few weeks before this particular evening news segment which prompted the following blog several years ago. We all have much to learn in being a living example of Christ’s love for us… He, who came to this earth as a newborn babe, to experience life through the eyes of humanity, and who, while being fully God, came with a purpose to redeem us from our sinful selves. And every once in a while, we are vividly reminded of the unselfish core of child-like faith and vision. God bless you as we remember “the reason for the season”. I think that we, as adults, have forgotten how to view life through the eyes of a child. Their wide-eyed innocence and purity come to us like a breath of fresh air… like a flower opening its beauty to the sun’s warm rays. As adults though, we sometimes become hardened by the realities of a harsh world. The evening news on Christmas Day 2014 (as told in Huffington Post, “Prankster Gives Homeless man $100…”) showed a brief documentary of what one homeless man did when given a $100 bill by the commentator, Josh Paler Lin. Standing at the side of a highway with a cardboard sign, the poor man must have felt like Lin was his savior when he was handed that much money! He was reluctant at first to take it, but then gladly accepted the free gift and walked away. From a distance, the cameraman inconspicuously trailed the homeless man as he took the money and walked into town. There, the man promptly entered a liquor store… exiting with two large and heavy bags. The assumption spoken in the video was that the money had been used by the homeless man to buy an awful lot of alcohol. I will admit that I, too, had felt great disappointment as I watched the man enter the liquor store. And, I, too, made an assumption by association. But, as the cameraman and Lin continued to follow the homeless man without his knowledge, the gentleman walked directly to a nearby park, set his bags down, and began to pull out packages… which he handed to others sitting around at picnic tables. And what was he handing out? Food. After watching for just a little bit longer, Lin went over to speak with the homeless man. Lin explained what he was doing in his documentary, pointing out the cameraman a short distance away, and then asked the homeless man to explain what he had just done with his $100 bill. I was impressed and teary-eyed to see a youthful Lin, with hair dyed both blond and black, tell the older man he owed him an apology for his wrong assumptions. They hugged as Lin shared that he assumed the older man had come out of the store carrying two bags full of liquor. Instead, he had learned a valuable lesson from this selfless, older man who carried all his worldly possessions in a bag… and who thought of the needs of others before his own. “You just touched my heart,” Lin told him. It was then the homeless man told Lin: “There's a lot of people that are just victims of circumstance, and they didn't go homeless because they're lazy… There's a lot of good people that are homeless.” And I was reminded of this poem I had written a few weeks earlier. May I have the ability to see the world through the eyes of a child, coming to the Lord with a simple child-like faith as I put my trust in God’s great love. For as Jesus said, “…I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven… And whoever welcomes a little child like this in my name welcomes me.” (Matt. 18:3,5) With a child-like faith, may I show the world around me the same love the Lord has lavished upon me, a sinner, in need of a Savior…. quite like the homeless man in our story. It was his simple and generous love for his friends which allowed him to share the food he’d bought with the gift he’d been given. He hoarded neither the money nor the food. And in this, I learned a valuable lesson and must ask myself, “Would I have been so generous?” Yet isn’t that why Jesus humbled himself to be born into this world of sin, a world far different from the glories of His heavenly home… to share His generosity by coming to us as a newborn babe, to view this world from our perspective, and to save us from ourselves? Thank you, Lord, for loving me so much that you saw my world through the eyes of a little child so long ago… Wishing each of you, my readers, a Merry and Blessed Christmas!! The Eyes of a Child Linda A. Roorda Through the open eyes of a little child We see our Lord without the blinders To know His love as gentle as a lamb And feel His arms envelope with peace. ~ The tender faith of one so young Is a gift from God through eyes without fear A simple trust with expectant hope Holding out hands for others to lead. ~ No guile is found within this wee soul Whose love is pure like a heart of gold Who freely gives to others in need That all may praise and bless His name. ~ Untainted youth by worldly vices Pure and trusting are innocent minds With hearts that see the best in us all And faith that hopes with unfailing love. ~ To tenderly hold the hands of a child And feel secure, encompassed by love, To view the world through innocent eyes Is to see the best in all whom we meet. ~ For judging others is not their concern They simply believe that all will be well And though their pride may rear its revolt How willing are they to forgive when wronged. ~ Their trusting heart accepts our reproof When patience is taught by living examples For character grows with perseverance As praises true will confidence build. ~ What would we see through the eyes of a child Is it pure love that encompasses all? Is it a trust in those who provide? And through such faith do our eyes open wide? ~ Faith to trust Him who holds us through storms A trusting belief in His loving heart And with this love to simply accept He knows what’s best as He leads the way. ~ With eyes of a child may we see our Lord The giver of life, bestower of gifts The One who guides with a Shepherd’s voice Who lay down His life that we might live. ~~

I suspect we’re all beginning to think about Thanksgiving, planning guests and menus…time to spend with family, fun and games… yet knowing we each have so much to be thankful for… every new day. But, if you’re anything like me, some of those blessings tend to be taken for granted… some things are just such an “every-day” part of our life, we forget to stand in awe of how special they really are. Being in contact with those less fortunate than we are, my heart goes out to them while seeking God’s guidance on how best to meet those needs. God gives us these opportunities to share from the bounty He’s provided us. And may you be richly blessed this Thanksgiving in so many ways! Blessings... those 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. ~

Absolutely loved this! No... I did not grow up on Fluff, or fluffernutters! Never knew such a thing existed until my kids were growing up... and then I was shocked that such a white sweet goo would be used for a sandwich with all that sugar!! No way was I going to spend hard earned dollars on that for my kids! Never mind I fed them Kool-Aid with all that sugar! But what was my favorite snack growing up? My Mom's homemade bread/toast (until a few years and a few siblings more later, we had Stroehmann's bread and thought we were coming up in the world!) slathered with oleo and white sugar with cinnamon sprinkled on top, or taking some of her fresh-made raw bread dough, and rolling it in sugar and cinnamon! Mmm! Mmm! Good! LOL! The irony is not lost here!

To whom do I owe allegiance? In whom do I put my trust? To whom do I give credence? Important words to contemplate for each of us in this world of conflict and hypocrisy. Because, when we are individually or collectively silenced or canceled for our beliefs or opinions, for the sake of those who consider themselves to be “in the know” about any and all subjects, we, as a society, have ceased to listen and to understand. We have lost our empathy, compassion and love, the ability to agree to disagree, but most of all we’ve lost true tolerance, loyalty and respect… allegiance. I’ve said it many times before… we are each created differently. Our kids often heard that phrase from us as we rejected comparisons and envy around us. We are each unique, to be respected and loved for who we are… even in our infirmities. Just as every snowflake, every leaf, and every creature in the world of nature is different yet similar, even imperfect, so are we. Not just physically and outwardly, but also emotionally in our thinking and reacting. We each have different life experiences that contribute to making us who we are today, and why we think the way we do. Have we not read or heard of the Golden Rule, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”? (Matthew 7:12, Luke 6:31) In other words, haven’t we been told to put ourselves in someone else’s “shoes” to understand their life and perspective? In so doing, we understand just a little better what their life is like, enabling us to show empathy, compassion, true tolerance, and loving kindness. And that exemplifies Jesus’ words in Mark 12:29-31: “the most important is this: …Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. The second is this: Love your neighbor as yourself.” With trust placed in our God, He keeps us from stumbling. He gives us the ability to love and respect those with whom we disagree. But when we take our eyes off Him and His wisdom and we stumble, He is right there to help pick us up to start over again. He welcomes us back, just like the little lost lamb He sought and brought back from danger. For all that our great God does for each of us, I, we, owe Him our thanks, our praise, and our adoration… our allegiance. To Whom Allegiance… Of Christ and His love Linda A. Roorda Suppose my voice were threatened to silence By those opposing my faith in Almighty. To whom allegiance, the question I’d face Would I still speak or in fear acquiesce? Some think it’s fair to believe at will Whatever goes, whatever seems right, To each his own, a designer faith That which best fits their values perceived. I’d hope my faith through testing and trial Would stand ever firm in the Lord of my soul. For the great I Am with mercy and grace Will gently guide when His face I seek. His wisdom my source for dealing with life, Yet often my search still draws me away. Why do I think my knowledge is best, And why do I fight His hands on the reins? Time and again He’s proven to me He truly knows best, His way unequaled. He pulls me up short to rein in my will With reassurance as He directs my steps. My voice will then share the Truth it has known A comforting Peace in the storms of life A gentle holding in the palm of His hand A vision of Light ever guiding my path. ~~

And Chris, thank you for the perfect header photo, and for adding Ernie Pyle's photo! Much appreciated!!

I've never been there, wish I/we could, but Ed is not able to travel, even going to the dr's takes everything out of him. I can only imagine how touching/emotional it would be for you or anyone to stand among those who were honoring their fallen friends and family members at the memorials. One of my younger brothers is a retired 20-yr Navy man, in the Gulf War, on a ship's tender out to sea. One of our son's best friends was among the very first going into the worst area in the middle east war after 9/11 as a Marine, Special Ops I believe. But, earlier this year, this summer, a long-time friend of ours, my mom's age, was at the D.C. memorials as part of an Honor Flight out of Binghamton. Bob sent us the WBNG-TV news clip; they had spoken with him, a Korean vet, and he was deeply honored, in tears just to be part of the event and share the time with other veterans. He'd told us quite some time ago that his plane had been shot down by a Russian plane; he was the radar man, with a few survivors. I'm ashamed that I can't remember the exact story. So I totally understand how honored you felt to simply be in the presence of those veterans, like your Dad. Thanks for sharing, Chris.

I’ve read books or stories from virtually every war in which men and women of our nation, including my immediate family, relatives and ancestors, have been involved. Their sacrifices have deeply touched my heart as I live a life of freedom, a blessing either limited or unknown to so many elsewhere in this world. Yet, our families have not known a loss of life in war during this past century. A few years ago, friends of ours shared some treasured family papers with me before the reign of Covid-19 when friends could freely visit. Several boxes of treasures were given to this friend by a relative, mementoes she never knew her mother had kept. They included old photographs and newspaper clippings. What especially touched her heart were family photos and letters, especially from one of her brothers who had died in World War II. Her mother had saved numerous clippings of the war from a local Binghamton newspaper. Here were reports of a war’s ups and downs, of the efforts of battle-worn troops, of men who paid the ultimate sacrifice, and of soldiers who returned home safely. Also included were touching news reports by Ernie Pyle, a reporter embedded with troops in the European theater and later in the South Pacific. Pyle was a beloved reporter in the U.S. and abroad. He had a way with words, evoking an empathy from his readers for the servicemen he wrote about. A reporter who opened his readers’ eyes, he put a personal touch to the effects of war, and to the emotions of hard-won battles for freedom’s sake. I remember him well… no, I did not grow up during the war, but had purchased and read his book, “Brave Men,” as a teen. Perusing through my friend’s papers, I knew I had to take Pyle’s book down off my bookshelf and refresh my memory. As I continued to read through my friend's papers, thoughts and emotions swirled around and the poem below began taking shape. I have always been grateful to those men and women who have joined the military to protect our freedoms and to gain the same for the oppressed around the world. But to think about each one who has ever gone off to war, to remember them as their family knew and loved them so well… is to contemplate the little child who ran into the loving arms of parents with boundless energy, full of love and joy… the playing and learning he or she did under their wise and watchful eyes… the teen coming to terms with adolescent struggles… the young adult who emerged from military basic training with a new sense of purpose… the seasoned soldier whose loyalty to his or her unit proved a perseverance and bravery they never thought they had… and the final tribute paid to one who gave his or her all that others might live… is to contemplate the heart and soul of each one who left behind a sweetheart or spouse, beloved parents and siblings, and even children… the one forever remembered for a life interrupted, of the great sacrifice made, and of the legacy now carried in the heart and soul of those who have grieved their loss. As we celebrate Veterans’ Day today, may this simple poem evoke in you a heart of thanks for all who have served and returned home safely, or who paid the ultimate sacrifice in any war. Without a willingness to put their lives on the line for the sake of freedom, we would not be enjoying our “…land of the brave and home of the free.” Thank you to each of you who has served in the military, and thank you to those who paid the ultimate sacrifice with their life. Heroes of Yesterday Linda A. Roorda Where tyranny reigns evil’s at the helm As the young and free who know only peace With faces brave must enter the fray In the fight for rights we take for granted. ~ Responsibility trains boys into men With troop cohesion, a unit’s tight bond To honor and hold each life in their care For freedom’s defense and the rights of all. ~ Orders to battle and the hell of war The call to arms which tests the mettle For within each heart lies the chance to prove The value of truth to fail or succeed. ~ From red alert to general quarters Emotions run deep in calm before strife Of imminent fight and future yearnings Always thinking, “If I get through…alive…”* ~ The sounds of war above stealth and fear The zing of bullets and bombs that explode Challenges met, overcome with courage Proving capable the common valor. ~ Back home they reflect, living fear and dread Loved ones waiting for word from afar A card or letter received with relief Until the knock comes when time stands still. ~ The letters home that ceased too soon As horrors of war burn deep in the soul Who’ll be the judge at the end of combat What the heart ponders to serve and protect… ~ To gain advantage with success for peace To hold these truths that all may live free To lift the spirit and rebuild from loss As we remember peace has a cost. ~~ *”Brave Men,” Ernie Pyle, Henry Holt and Company, Inc., 1944, p.5

Yes, you should! I used to get a special packet of spices for the dill; my mom grew her own dill. And she invented putting slices of her homemade dill pickles on toasted cheese sandwiches made with her homemade bread - unless her mother did that too that I never knew about - out of this world delicious! The bread-and-butter pickles are super easy. Love, love, love sweet gherkins but they do take time with the brine, soaking and heating it up, etc., but so worth it in the delicious munching!! Enjoy!

PS - I just saw the photos you added above - love them! That's what my canning shelves sort of looked like decades ago! all the many dozens of quarts of tomatoes, fruit, pickles and certain veggies! Do you make pickles? Used to enjoy making dill and bread-and-butter pickles, but also the sweet gherkins that took alot of soaking in brine to process but oh so good!

Oh my goodness, Chris! That's still quite a loss! But, as you said, at least you were able to make a good amount of cider to enjoy! and glad to hear your potatoes were so successful and happily taking up residence in the basement! I remember our huge gardens years ago - growing potatoes was fun! In fact, our oldest daughter as a youngster enjoyed digging in the dirt to find them! It was like a treasure hunt to her at that age 🙂 I know you'll all enjoy them on the table this winter!!

Admittedly, I laughed! Does the beret come with an eye patch? But... admittedly, don't think I want "you" in one of the classes where I'm subbing LOL!

What is our worth, our value? How do we even measure such an entity? Have we been so downtrodden that we feel like a failure… like we’re unworthy of the love of others? Or do we hold our head up knowing we have inherent worth among the rest? Feeling unworthy is not new to any of us. We’ve all been there at times throughout our life. Haven’t we at one time or another made a simple mistake, yet were left feeling so ashamed we just wanted to disappear? I have. Frequently belittled in the past by a sibling and peers, those with a bravado making up for their own insecurities, I’ve felt defeated and worthless, without importance or value. After my family moved from farm life near East Palmyra, NY to city life in Clifton, NJ in February 1965, I struggled to accept this new way of life. I hated the move and city life with every fiber of my being. At age 10, I’d essentially lost all my good friends and the value of who I was… or so I thought. I had to start over in a new city and a new school, trying to make new friends. Initially, this small school did not represent the love that I had been used to. Here, at a city Christian school, I initially knew only two people – my younger cousin, Susan, and our minister’s daughter, Kristin. Amazingly, her father had previously been our pastor in East Palmyra, and Kristin and my sister and I were already good friends – we used to visit each other’s home for play dates. So, on the very first day of school, Kristin brought me and my sister inside to take us to the office. Instead, we were met in the hall by the principal who yelled at us for being inside, insisting we go back outside until the bell rang. I felt so belittled, worthless, like I’d done something terribly wrong, all because the principal did not listen to us, nor recognize and understand that we were trying to tell her we were new students. At that time, I was smart, looked up to by peers. However, there came a day that spring when I made a mistake so blatant that I was shamed. Waiting for the school bus at the top of our block, I saw a truck pass by with S.O.X. written in very large letters on the side – and South Orange Express written beneath. That’s an interesting name, I thought. I’ll have to look for that truck again! That morning in school we had a surprise spelling bee – something I excelled in. I read extensively already in fourth grade, being allowed three books for the week from the school library while everyone else could only take two. As the spelling bee progressed, I was given the word “socks.” Of course, I knew that simple word. Yet, what proceeded to come forth out of my mouth was “s-o-x.” And, then I was laughed at… Oh, my goodness! What had I just done! I knew how to spell socks! But that trucking company’s name had become embedded in my brain that morning, and, without thinking, that’s what I blurted out! I was so utterly ashamed that I went back to my desk fighting tears, refusing to show outwardly my devastated emotions. I felt absolutely worthless… On reading this story, my husband encouragingly said, “Hey! There are two baseball teams, the Red Sox and the White Sox. You weren’t so far off after all!” Acceptance by peers is not where my value and worth truly comes from. Too often, we put stock in how others perceive us, even as adults… and in what they consider to be of value – like intelligence, good looks, possessions, and how much fun we are. Instead, those things are all part of worldly superficial values. My family could not afford the latest new toys, nor the current fashion in clothes. I often wore and appreciated hand-me-down clothes… especially appreciating clothing gifts from my grandparents, or fabric to sew clothes for myself once I learned how. But the simplicity taught me to value what I did have, and to consider others no less worthy than myself. I do not look down on someone else, and developed empathy toward others in their struggles. Remembering that when I meet someone new, or see someone who’s been hurt by mocking and shaming, I know how it feels as it had once been me. Reaching out to others shows they are worthy, too! Though we may doubt our worth, God does not. He knows our value. After all, He created us and designed our individuality. There are no two of us alike. In this way, we each bring our uniqueness to benefit the world. Unfortunately, our inherent value, our worth, has been undermined... by sin. Yet, God loves us so much that He sent His beloved and only son, Jesus, to take the punishment for our wayward ways, our sin… to die in our place. And with that gracious gift we realize, “How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!” (I John 3:1) God knows our worth! He values and loves each one of us for who we are! Though we may think we’re not worthy, we truly do have value… for we are totally and unconditionally loved by our awesome God… we are worthy!! Worthy Linda A. Roorda I am not worthy to be called Your child I’ve willfully gone about my own way I threw caution away with the wind Thinking alone this world I could handle. But here I am down on my knees Knowing I’ve failed time after time How can You care and how can You love Someone like me still bucking the reins. You gently seek and call out to me Drawing me close, my wrongs now to see Had I listened to Your voice all along I would not feel the shame I do now. Yet as I reach for Your loving arms Hear my heart’s cry acknowledge my sin Knowing Your grace now covers my soul As once again, mercy washes clean. I give You my all as I surrender now And give You the fears that grip at my soul What will I gain by taking the reins When Your guiding hands hold gently my heart. For You hold me up and prove I’m worthy You lead me on to stand on Your words It’s then I feel Your arms surround me As Your love pours out its comforting peace. ~~ April 2015 ~~

As summer’s warmth gives way to the cooler days of fall, our thoughts turn to cold-weather projects, and that of storing food for the coming winter. Without that process, our ancestors would be hard pressed to get through the bitter cold months, unless, of course, you could afford to purchase all your food supplies at the local general store. Once upon a time, most families cultivated large vegetable gardens and raised a barnyard menagerie to put food by for the coming winter – a vital necessity. How they accomplished it without our modern water-bath and pressure canners, and freezers, that we and our mother’s generation have used amazes me. In early 2003, I was concluding my empty-nest project, researching and writing an extensive manuscript which documented every family line of my mother’s parents back to the early 17th century settlers of New Netherlands. And that was using only the pathetically slow dial-up internet for online research! In asking for input from relatives on their memories of our grandparents, my aunt, Shirley (Tillapaugh) Van Duesen, shared how much she enjoyed working alongside her dad. Her ties to her father don’t surprise me. While growing up, I enjoyed time spent working with my dad, too, and that naturally evolved into enjoying time spent working with my husband on the farm and around our property. But, I found it especially interesting that, of all things my aunt chose to write about, she told me about fall butchering time on the farm. And I’m so glad she did because, in many ways, what she wrote about is a lost skill. Oh sure, we still have butcher shops in some rural communities, but gone are the days of farm and backyard butchering where neighbors helped each other with these chores. With permission granted by my cousin, Doug, to share his mother’s words, Aunt Shirley wrote, “What I remember the most was hog butchering time which was sometime in November. It was a community project, usually two or three days. Everyone who had pigs to butcher helped in the process, and they were hung in my father’s garage to cool overnight or until they were ready to be cut up. Each one took their own [pig] home to process from that point on. I always enjoyed helping cut ours up – to cut and skin the rind (or hide) off the fat, cut fat off the meat, grind and render it down into lard for cooking, cut meat into roasts, pork chops, tenderloin, and grind other remaining meat and scraps for sausage. My father always cut and shaped the hams, then put them in large tubs with a salt brine to cure for several weeks. Then he would take them out and smoke them in the smokehouse. He would do the same with the sausage after grinding and stuffing it into the casings, and then shape that into links. The hams were then put into large brown bags and hung in the cellar, and used as needed – and the same for the sausage.” Her description gives us a great overall picture of the process. Further details on the butchering process can be found in the online Backwoods Home Magazine, Issue No. 23 from September/October 1993, with an appropriate article, “Slaughtering and Butchering,” by Dynah Geissal. I enjoyed this very informative article in which Geissal gives excellent directions for the homesteader in butchering a variety of home-grown animals raised specifically for the freezer. She describes how to cut the meat into appropriate sections, with photos to provide guiding details. She even includes recipes for sausage, scrapple and other delicious fare. Raised on a dairy farm, my husband was present twice when his father and uncles butchered cows on the farm. Like my aunt wrote, Ed agreed that the best time to butcher is in the fall, typically November, because it’s cold enough to hang the carcass to avoid spoilage. When cows were shipped to the butcher shop, he also said it was important to keep the animal as calm as possible before slaughter. This helped keep the meat from becoming tough and unsavory. On a smaller scale in backyard processing, my sister and I were the official assistants when it was time to dispatch designated unproductive chickens or specific meat birds to the freezer. My father was in charge of swinging the axe on the chopping block. And for those who have only heard the expression about someone running around like a chicken with their head cut off – let me assure you, it’s accurate! After filling a 5-gallon bucket with boiling water, we sisters were given the honor of dunking and plucking. With twine around their feet, we hung the scalded chickens from a nail in a barn beam and plucked those feathers clean off as best we could. My mother was in charge of dressing the hens back in the kitchen. Dressing is the more delicate term to describe the process of gutting and cleaning the bird. I still vividly recall my mother showing us shell-less eggs from inside one of the hens – in descending sizes from the current large to tiny! I was utterly fascinated! I should perhaps mention at this point that once upon a time I had thoughts of becoming a veterinarian. As science and math were not among my strong points, that dream soon fell by the wayside. We also raised pigs, three at a time. And now I must confess that I had a tremendous fear of our cute little piglets simply from their noise and stench! So, I refused to care for them, thus putting my younger brothers in charge of the feeding and cleaning of little piglets that grew into large hogs – really a good responsibility for my energetic brothers! My dad knew when they’d reached sufficient poundage and sent them off to the butcher shop to become delicious pork in the freezer for us and our city relatives. Our mare (granddaughter of the famous race horse, Man O' War), chickens, ducks and one goose (appropriately named “Honk” by my toddler brother) were my charges with the Muscovy ducks providing entertainment. Digging a hole in the fenced-in chicken run, we sank a square galvanized tub for their bathing delight, and they regularly enjoyed “swim” time. Only one duck decided to set on about a dozen eggs. Four hatched properly and soon waddled behind their Mama to explore the great outdoors. Feeling sorry for the fifth duckling who was late emerging from its shell, this writer took it upon herself to assist the poor little thing. Unbeknownst to her at the time (she forgot to study), fowl do not need, nor do they desire, our assistance to hatch from their shell. They have a “tooth” on their beak which assists them quite well; but, they also must do their own hatching in order to survive. So, you guessed it – this little duckling did not live long once it had been helped out of its shell. Then, a few days later, this caretaker came home from school and eagerly went out to care for her critters only to sadly discover one little duckling had drowned in the 2-inch-deep water dish in their pen. That left three cute and fuzzy ducklings to follow the adults as they grew like weeds. And, though a bit more greasy than chicken, they were absolutely delicious when my mother roasted them! (Yes, that was their intended purpose.) During the years that I stayed home to raise our children while my husband farmed with his dad, I grew a large garden every summer, canning and freezing a year’s worth of vegetables and fruit. It sure helped save on grocery bills. It was only natural I delved into this venture since my parents raised a large garden every year for as long as I can remember, as did both sets of grandparents. But, as children, when we were sent out to weed our garden, my sister and I opted instead to run and play between the rows! Truth be told, we even tossed some of the green beans under the lilac bushes when we decided we were tired of the chore of snapping them. However, when they were my own gardens with food to be put up for the coming winter, I thoroughly enjoyed every aspect of the process. But, as mentioned above, I’ve often wondered how our ancestors put their veggies up. They didn’t have the benefit of a freezer, nor could they efficiently use water-bath jar canning let alone the fine tunings of a high-pressure cooker/canner like I had available. So, in looking for books to study this subject, I recalled my bookshelf held my mother’s, “Putting Food By – The No.1 book about all the safe ways to preserve food.” It’s a very useful book for beginners as it discusses all the prerequisites to canning and freezing vegetables and meats, including explanations of the old-fashioned methods our ancestors used to put up their food. Another excellent resource obtained through Spencer’s interlibrary loan system was “The Little House Cookbook, Frontier Foods from Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Classic Stories” by Barbara M. Walker. What a genuine treasure this book is as Ms. Walker expands on Wilder’s descriptions of the foods they ate by explaining how their food was prepared with innumerable appropriate recipes. A classic from the 19th century, Housekeeper and Healthkeeper (available only online and not through interlibrary loan) by Catherine E. Beecher (sister of Harriet Beecher Stowe) discusses virtually every conceivable household dilemma for the housewife of the late 19th century. Beecher’s own foreword is written to “My Dear Friends, - This volume embraces…many valuable portions of my other works on Domestic Economy… It is designed to be a complete encyclopedia of all that relates to a woman’s duties as housekeeper, wife, mother, and nurse.” Beecher includes five hundred recipes of which I perused a few. She is completely thorough in all of her explanations to assist the housewife who often entered her new profession without foundational training. I was impressed by Beecher’s ability to address every possible home situation from cooking and putting food by, to cleaning and caring for the sick family. In our ancestors’ time a few hundred years ago, even through the end of the 19th century, most rural families had a milch (milk) cow or two. Not only was the family’s delicious milk and cream supplied by their very own favorite pet cow, but Bossy’s milk also provided them the ability to make butter, cheese and ice cream. Things just didn’t get any better than that! And, extras could be sold or bartered for other necessities not readily available or too expensive at the general mercantile. Without electricity, one either had an ice house to keep foods cold, a storage area in the cellar, or a springhouse. Root cellars were a popular place to store vegetables below the frost line. Attics were often used to store food during the winter including hams, pumpkins, squashes, onions, and dried vegetables. Perhaps the home had a storage shed just outside the back door. Here, the family could conveniently store meat in a “natural freezer” during the winter months (though I’ve wondered about wild critters enjoying the free cache), along with stacked firewood, other supplies, and kettleware. Then again, many homes had a large pantry just off the kitchen. I remember well my Grandma Tillapaugh’s huge pantry with shelves on all sides and a door to the cellar, which I never did get to explore. It was in this pantry that she kept her big tin of large scrumptious molasses cookies that we could help ourselves to when she gave approval. Try as I might, I was never able to duplicate her delicious cookies though! My mother shared with me that their cellar held crates of apples and potatoes and other root vegetables. Not a root cellar per se`, my mom said that what was stored in crates kept quite well through the winter. She also recalls her mother did use both pressure and waterbath canners for fruits and vegetables, along with canning pickled tongue and other meats at butchering time. As my Aunt Shirley wrote about butchering time, their meat was put into a salt brine and stored in large wooden barrels or the old pottery crocks. This process meant keeping the meat well covered by brine, held below the surface by a heavy weight. Smoking was another great way to cure and preserve the meat to prevent spoilage and bacteria growth during storage over the long winter. Brine, made of sugar, salt, saltpeter or sodium nitrate, and mixed with water, covered and cured meats placed in large crocks. After the curing time of up to two months, the meat was typically smoked and then hung in the attic or cellar. Or, you could fry the meat, place it in a crock, covering it with a layer of lard, then a layer of meat covered by lard until the crock was full. The homemaker had only to dig out the amount of meat needed for a meal and reheat it. These ever-handy crocks preserved other foods such as butter, pickles, sauerkraut, and even vegetables. Apple cider was fermented to make hard cider, often a staple on the old farms. Lard or paraffin was used to seal a crock’s contents, keeping out contaminants causing spoilage. Read “The Many Uses of Pottery Crocks” by Jeannine Roediger (09/18/11). Before modern conveniences came along, root vegetables were typically stored in the cellar, or root cellar – especially potatoes, turnips, onions, beets, cabbages, carrots and even apples. Areas that are cool, dark and dry help keep vegetables from sprouting, and slow any spoilage that might begin. It was also a wise idea to store apples, potatoes and cabbages apart from each other and other produce so their odors/flavors did not spoil each other. It was also a must to keep an eye on everything for early signs of spoilage. Vegetables and certain fruits being stored could be wrapped individually in paper, or kept in baskets covered in sand, soil or dry leaves. Reading the requirements in “Putting Food By,” we need to know a lot about the root cellar process that, on the surface, seems like such a simple idea – but it’s really not. There are specific temperature and dryness or moisture requirements for the various vegetables and fruits to prevent mold and spoilage. I recall that in the early 1980s, I had an abundance of good-sized green tomatoes. After picking them, we lay them out on the basement floor on newspaper to ripen, storing the greenest in a bushel basket with each one wrapped in newspaper. They kept for a good while out in the garage where it was cold but not freezing. Another popular method was to dry fruits and vegetables, often simply by drying them in the sun. Meat dried in this manner is called jerky. If the home had a cookstove, drying could be accomplished on trays in the oven, or the vegetables and fruit could simply be put on strings and hung to dry in a warm area of the room. The warm attic space near the chimney was another good place to dry food, using protection from dust and bugs. Reconstitution by adding sufficient water for stewing was all it took to use these otherwise scarce foods during the cold and barren winter months. Though they often lost some of the original flavor, dried veggies and fruits must have been a welcome addition to their diet during the cold winter months. In the latter half of the 19th century, special driers with built-in furnaces became available on the market for home use in drying various fruits and vegetables. When thinking about the types of food eaten by our ancestors on the frontier, we need to remember that their salty and fatty dishes were necessary for their diet considering their involvement in extensive physical labor. And to this any modern farmer can attest as their own hard work all day in the barn or fields contributes to a rather hearty appetite – I do remember how much Ed ate without gaining weight! Farmers and homesteaders had not only the typical farm chores to attend to in the hot summer and bitter cold winter, but they would hunt to supplement their meat supply, and put in a garden to reap the harvest of both vegetables and fruits. If the homesteader did not have a ready supply of fruit on their own bushes and trees, searching the nearby forest often gave them a bounty of seasonal fruits and berries. Yet, even in that venture, there was the ever-present danger of wild animals, especially bear. The homesteaders’ hearty appetites and wide variety of unprocessed food allowed for a healthy diet which did not require today’s supplemental vitamins. My mother shared her memory years ago of pouring maple syrup (or cooked molasses and brown sugar) over snow which Laura Ingalls and her siblings did to make a delicious candy. (Not recommended nowadays with the pollutants in our snow.) As a teen, I remember making ice cream the old-fashioned way with a hand-turned crank – nothing tasted better when it was ready! And my sister and I attempted to make divinity, once – it wasn’t perfect, but it was delicious! Now, a favorite of mine is to make cashew brittle – the key being a candy thermometer which neither my sister and I nor Laura Ingalls’ family had available years ago. It required a lot of work on the part of every family member to hunt, raise and grow the family’s food, and then to put it up for the coming winter, year after year. If they didn’t carefully follow the steps to properly preserve their food, a good deal of spoilage could and would occur due to various elements or critters. And, at the time of which we write, the early 19th century, canning was not yet an available option for our homesteader. Actually, the glass Mason canning jar with rubber ring and wire clasp was not available until 1858. But then, of course, if you could afford it, you could simplify life and buy quality foods at the grocery or butcher shop in town to maintain a well-balanced diet throughout the unproductive winter months. All things considered, we really do have an easier way of life. But, what satisfaction our ancestors must have felt in putting by their own food! I sure did when canning and freezing the produce of our gardens years ago.

In the autumnal season of life, as we age and retire out of the workforce, some of us may begin to feel unwanted and useless. We’ve done our job, and certainly did our best… we put heart and soul into our family and career. But now that we’re a few years removed from a busy active life, and no longer able to do what we once could, maybe some of us feel like we’ve been “put out to pasture” and left to watch time slowly tick away. I hope you’re enjoying a great autumn season as the leaves turn colors, the geese form their entourages and fly south, colder weather requires jackets, and tinges of wood smoke make the outdoor air aromatic reminding me of what pioneer days must have been like. We still have not had a frost but expect it later this coming week. Like life, a lot of changes happen in this season of fall as we prepare for winter just around the corner, reminding me I need to prepare for the inevitable and get those snow tires put on. And so, we prepare for our latter season of life… and enjoy this time of change. Admittedly, though, I am not a big fan of change… like arthritis creeping in, realizing I need to buy a magnifying glass to read the fine print… but I roll with it, accept the changes, and move forward… These thoughts came to mind on seeing some photos several years ago, like those at this tug graveyard, taken by Will Van Dorp, aka Tugster, another friend from childhood days. As Will documents and blogs about the daily traffic of his aptly-named watery “Sixth Boro” surrounding New York City and its environs, we see tugs hard at work towing and pushing barges or assisting an array of ships. Once upon a time, newly minted, they slid off the ways into the water, freshly christened with a shining glow, eager to face whatever responsibility or danger came their way. Tugs of various shapes and sizes actively plied the waters for many decades, sometimes sold to be rebuilt, repurposed and renamed to fit a new owner’s need. But, it saddens us when these workhorses of watery roads are abandoned in a lonely inlet graveyard to slowly rot away. They deserve a more fitting tribute for their hard-earned rest. Sort of like us… who begin to feel more like the months of autumn as the effects of aging take their toll… despite our thinking we’re a few decades younger and that we can still handle what we used to do with ease! Maybe we had only one job, one career, or maybe we embraced multiple careers in our lifetime. Maybe we lived through an era in history with a personal perspective that today’s youth just don’t understand. Be willing to share your life stories… the blessings, the fun and laughter, and the tears in tough times. What was learned through your experiences may help someone else understand how to face their own difficulty. With the end of life coming to us all eventually, be it boat or person, we can still make the most of our time that’s left. We don’t need to retire to the proverbial rocker in the corner… at least not yet anyway! We can be repurposed in retirement to benefit others. We can volunteer our time in any number of ways within our local community. In so doing, we can bring a smile, a sense of joy and love to someone who truly can’t get out and about as they once did. Listen to the stories, memories of the heart. Help a friend share their life’s history. Perhaps you can be the catalyst to writing down their memoirs. Create the opportunity for such remembrances to be passed on to their children, grandchildren and great-grands, even to others beyond their immediate family. Every one of us has a story to tell… our place in history to share. Like us, those old tugboats are deserving of recognition for what was accomplished during life’s journey with a fitting salute and tribute. Tug Salute Linda A. Roorda They ply the waters, these boats called tugs Each bow riding high with a stern slung low A workhorse they say for river or sea Vital to traffic of watery lanes. ~ Now gaunt and faded like lifeless fossils Left to corrode alone with their mem’ries, Who can recall the day of christening When futures shone bright as colorful hulls. ~ Riding waves high to rescue the dying Pushing and tugging behemoths of the deep Gently nudging, tucking in a berth Or pushing deep scows hauling upriver freight. ~ No matter the calm, never minding the storm They’ve a job to do without laud or praise Handling with ease by a captain’s trained eye Who knows safe channels like the back o’ the hand. ~ But came the day they were put to rest No hands at the helm, their days were numbered Silently rocking as waves tick off time Lapping relentless to a tune not their own. ~ Haunting images mere remnants of honor Come close and listen, if you dare tread near Listen to whispers of tales long ago As we salute you, the pride of the harbor. ~~ PHOTO CREDIT: Will Van Dorp, "Tugster".

Anniversaries…I like to think of them as brackets that hold our special memories marking the ever-flowing years. October 26th is our wedding anniversary, and goodness, but how the years have flown! There’s a lot of life lived within those years, a lot of water under that bridge… years that took a young bride and a little older and wiser groom through many stages of growth… years that saw carefree and happy days, but also years which saw many losses and changes that left their marks. Truth is, some days were harder than we ever could have imagined possible when we first became a team and dreamed of living together happily ever after. For me and Ed it has been learning to listen to each other (sometimes to what isn’t being verbalized), to make time to work out hard life issues, to accept each other, faults and all, to apologize and forgive, and to choose to love and remain committed to the vows we took on our wedding day. Whether we faced the happy days of easy love, the normal day-to-day mundane aspects of life, the difficult challenges with Ed no longer being able to farm with his dad as he lost the last vestiges of vision, the acceptance of a new way of life while he spent six months learning new skills at The Carroll Center for the Blind in Newton, MA, the joy and excitement our children brought into our lives by just being who they are, love for the spouses they married and the Grandchildren they blessed us with, staring at unbelievable sorrow and pain when our oldest daughter unexpectedly passed away at age 25, or the changes which multiple difficult health issues and disabilities have brought us, there is One who has walked beside us every step of the way… In fact, like the poem, “Footsteps In The Sand,” I know the Lord has carried us during those times when we were utterly overwhelmed by life. And, praise God, we have overcome what life has tossed our way, and our bonds have become stronger than when we first began our married journey 47 years ago! Once There Was A Time Linda A. Roorda Once there was a time I gazed into your eyes serene And there beheld the depths of your soul With all the love entwined in your heart… I miss the twinkle and the wink I miss the many tones of your gaze For your eyes spoke tender volumes Of adoration and undying love. Once there was a time Of holding hands on carefree walks Cherishing how you protected and led And lifted me gently over the fence… You shared your music, humor and wisdom As we walked and talked, laughed and pondered Sweet dreams and plans for our life ahead O’er paths unknown but bright with love. Once there was a time I breathed in deep the ambience Of fresh-baled hay and farming life And snuggled close, safe in your arms… I loved it best to work with you A shadow beside your every move Watching with pride my farmer’s hands Caring for cattle and crops and fields. Once there was a time Three precious babes arrived To bring us joy and share our love As we watched them grow and learn at our side… Then changes came, sudden and unbidden For life doesn’t always go as we plan You lost your vision, you lost your dream, We lost ourselves to a new way of life. Once there was a time Of joyous blessings and bittersweet days When dreams took root and on wings did fly From a nest that emptied all too soon… Then just as surely as rejoicing came The agony of death descended dark Yet hidden deep within the walls Lay healing and peace only God could give. Once there was a time We watched each other struggle Overwhelmed by cares and concerns of life From darkened doors to windows of light… For sometimes wisdom can best be learned By facing trials of hardship and pain In Faith, Hope and Love we persevere As we walk a path covered by prayer. Once there was a time When life seemed just an empty slate Waiting to be filled and made complete O’er paths now trod and bright with love… Yet in gazing back upon our days Never did we walk alone For gently guiding and lighting our way Were the grace-filled loving hands of our Lord ~~

Great read! My sentiments exactly. I do not like corn mazes, never tried one, have no interest! I already fear getting lost driving to a new-to-me destination even with directions, and not about to try a corn maze... ever!!! 🙂

I’m sure we’ve all heard of Johnny Appleseed and those apple seeds he planted “everywhere.” The 1948 Disney movie, “Melody Time,” and their 2002 version, “American Legends,” both include a short story about him with a simple upbeat song: “The Lord is good to me, And so I thank the Lord, For giving me the things I need, The sun and rain and an apple seed, Yes, He’s been good to me…” But who was this legendary man? Not many Americans know the real story behind the myths perpetuated in film, song and verse. And, since I didn’t know much more about Johnny Appleseed other than the fact that he went around planting apple seeds, I thought it was about time I did a little research. John (not Jonathan, his youngest half-brother’s name, as some websites call him) Chapman was born September 26, 1774 in Leominster, Massachusetts. But, he died far from his birth home, an apparent pauper, near Fort Wayne, Indiana in mid-March 1845. He may have died the 11th, or the 18th, or was it the 17th? Accounts vary, rather indicative of his life, but his obituary was dated March 22, 1845 in the “Fort Wayne Sentinel” of Fort Wayne, Ohio. John Chapman's Birthplace - Leominster, Massachusetts He was a simple man, walking virtually everywhere in bare feet, even in inclement weather, wearing baggy pantaloons and a coffee sack from which he’d cut holes for his head and arms. He often wore one or more hats on his head, including a cooking pot with a handle, and carried his belongings in a satchel on his back. Then, one dreary evening when the precipitation coming down was a bitter cold mixture of rain and snow, he appeared at the door of the William Worth home, friends with whom he’d stayed before. After satisfying his hunger, he shared his usual news “right fresh from heaven” with the family (Means, p.1) – the truths within the Bible as seen through his eyes and those in the teachings of Emanuel Swedenborg as was his favorite past time. He was a faithful disciple of Swedenborg’s religious philosophy, carrying the church’s books and pamphlets with him and eagerly expounding upon his favorite issues to anyone available to listen, for this was “…in many ways, the driving force of his life.” (Johnny Appleseed: The Man, the Myth, the American Story, Howard Means, p.6) Chapman apparently awoke the next morning with a fever from an infection which seems to have settled in his lungs. He died within days, or was it just hours, of what was then called the “winter plague” which could have been anything from pneumonia to influenza. And, apparently he died with his face the picture of serenity as the Worth family and their physician later pointed out. (Means, p. 2) Chapman was a simple and gentle man, not one given to drunkenness or fighting. He was very much at home in the wilderness, preferring the untamed wild country to the inside of a cabin. But, at times he did appreciate the hearth of those who welcomed him inside their home - that is, when he chose to enter. Interestingly, he was accepted by virtually everyone with whom he came in contact despite his odd and uncouth appearance - from the Native Americans to the domesticated early settlers and the wilderness frontiersmen. He was respected as an odd eccentric, a larger-than-life character wherever he went. He had an uncanny ability to be “here one minute, gone the next.” (Means, p. 3) The famed Civil War general, William Tecumseh Sherman, born and raised in Lancaster, Ohio, may have known Chapman, or perhaps just knew of him, as Chapman passed through the area while Sherman was still in his teens. After Chapman’s death, Sherman is purported to have said, “Johnny Appleseed’s name will never be forgotten… We will keep his memory green, and future generations of boys and girls will love him as we, who knew him, have learned to love him.” (Means, p. 4) Born in 1774 as above, Chapman was the second child of Nathaniel and Elizabeth (Simons) Chapman. His father was a member of the Minutemen Militia and fought at Bunker Hill. Both families have ties to the very early New England settlers, with descendants of Chapman’s mother’s extended Simonds/Simons family known to include the George Bush family. While Nathaniel Chapman was off fighting the war for independence that summer of 1776, his wife gave birth to their third son, Nathaniel, on June 26. On July 16, however, Elizabeth succumbed to an illness already affecting her as she had written in a letter to her husband earlier that month. Barely two weeks after her death, her tiny infant son also died. There must have been intense heartbreak felt by the two young siblings left behind. With their father at war, it has been presumed their mother’s family took them in. With very little documentation of their early childhood, we only know that little Johnny and his older sister, Elizabeth, are next found with their father and step-mother in Longmeadow, south of Springfield, Massachusetts by about 1781. Into a very small house, about 400 square feet, Nathaniel Sr. moved with his new wife, Lucy. In time, ten more children joined the family. The assumption can only be that of a home in utter chaos and squalor as the older children helped to care for the newer infants. From this noise and chaos, it appears John Chapman escaped with his half-brother, Nathaniel, Jr. Again, though we know very little of Chapman’s growing up years, he and Nathaniel Jr. are found about 15 years later (about 1796) in far western Pennsylvania. The western frontier was just beginning to open up with wilderness land ready for settlement by Revolutionary War veterans. How fortuitous when, in 1792, the Ohio Company of Associates (actually formed in Massachusetts, among other companies with land deals) began to offer one hundred acres of land free to anyone desiring to settle the “Donation Tract.” This land encompassed about one hundred thousand acres of wilderness beyond Ohio’s first white settlement in Marietta, used to help create a buffer zone between the white settlers and the warring Native Americans. There was one catch, however, to obtaining this free land: you had just three years in which to plant 50 apple trees and 20 peach trees as proof of your intention to settle the land. (Means, p.8-9) Chapman, with his uncanny ability to know where frontier settlements were likely to spring up, would trek into the wilderness, often along fertile river bottoms, stake out his claim and clear several acres to plant the apple seeds he had obtained from cider mills. He usually surrounded his plantings with a brush fence, though that did not always keep the small seedlings from being destroyed by critters and river flooding. In a few years, a small apple orchard would be waiting the arrival of settlers. However, he did not profit much from property he sold. Quite often, he simply used up whatever profits he’d made to buy and care for abused horses he saw on his travels. He also had a habit of just giving away seeds or young trees to those who couldn’t afford to pay much, if anything, for them. (Means, p.9) Chapman’s eccentricities abound, promoting a mythical aspect to his life story. Supposedly, he had been kicked in the head by a horse, perhaps in his twenties, suffering a skull fracture that required he be trepanned – that is, he had a portion of skull bone removed to alleviate pressure on his brain from internal hemorrhaging. Some have contended there might be validity to this story to explain some of Chapman’s oddities. Again, even this accident cannot be proven beyond that which W. M. Glines of Marietta, Ohio claimed. (Means, p.13) And so, into Pennsylvania, John (23 years) and Nathaniel (about 16) traveled – whether by foot, by horse, or by canoe no one knows for certain. Nor can various authors’ claims of various routes be proven beyond doubt. Regardless of how they arrived, John and Nathaniel planted apple seeds in the ground which they’d obtained in apple mash at cider mills; their intent was to plant seeds to prove their land throughout the wilderness. Their first plantings were made in what later became Warren County of northwest Pennsylvania during 1796 to 1799. Proof of their travels here is recorded in various journals and records at trading posts along the Allegheny River between Warren and Franklin. At some point before the turn of the new 19th century, John and his half-brother Nathaniel parted ways for reasons unclear to historians. John Chapman is recorded in various land deals, buying and leasing, signing promissory notes to family members, and selling land and apple seedlings all through the early part of the 19th century. It should also be noted that, by planting apple seeds, Chapman’s trees would not grow fruit true to the parent apple. Unless limbs are grafted onto sturdy root stock, apple seeds will revert to growing into one of thousands of varieties from their unique genetic coding, making apple tree propagation by seed totally unreliable. Among logical explanations for Chapman’s planting of apple seeds for fruit trees have been his desire to quickly establish ownership of the land his seeds were planted upon, knowing that whatever type of apple was produced would simply be pressed into cider. This beverage was consumed more often as hard cider at a time when liquor, hard cider and wine were used in large quantities by adults and children alike. Thus, Chapman’s apple trees would be a welcome addition to any homestead on the frontier. (Means, p.97) Another important part of Chapman’s mystique was his religious devotion to Swedenborgianism and the so-called New Church founded in 1787 in Britain after Swedenborg’s death. In fact, after visiting Ohio settlements in1801, Chapman became a convert and devoted disciple, leaving literature for settlers, often announcing himself with the words, “Here is news right fresh from heaven for you.” (Means, p.121) Armed with his own philosophy of not harming anything or anyone, plant, animal or human, Chapman was ready to share his religious beliefs with anyone who would listen… an avid missionary, as noted by the New Church. Briefly, Swedenborgianism was founded by the Swedish scientist and philosopher, Emanuel Swedenborg (1688-1772). In 1768, Swedenborg was tried for heresy. In 1770, he and his followers were ordered to cease their teachings. Swedenborg claimed to have psychic gifts, saw visions, and believed he was given special revelations directly from God. He imputed his own philosophy into the divinely inspired words of Scripture to propagate his own beliefs. Swedenborg also denied the triune character of God, believed that Christ was born with inherent evil from His mother, denied the personality of Satan, denied that Christ’s death was a substitution or atonement for our sin, and denied that Christ arose from the dead. (Sanders, p.167) Thus, he was in opposition to the doctrinal tenets which are the substantive foundational components of the Christian faith. Moving over into Ohio not long after the turn of the 19th century, Chapman is found planting his apple seeds from Steubenville and Wellsburg near the eastern border of Pennsylvania to Dexter City north of the Ohio River, Marietta on the Muskingum River to Newark on the Licking River. He purchased or leased land in several northern counties as well, including Knox, Richland and Ashland. Later, he also covered ground in Indiana. Chapman roamed far and wide in wilderness territory, always with an eye for a good place to put his seeds in the ground, having that keen ability to discern where new settlements were most likely to spring up. In early September 1812, he began to merge into myth during a period of hostile Indian attacks with counter-attacks by the white settlers. Chapman apparently ran 26 miles each way, in bare feet, from house to house in the middle of the night through the wilderness to yell out a warning to settlers that the Indians were on the warpath. He, more than anyone else, knew the trails like the backs of his hands from his own meanderings and plantings. With this singular feat, he alerted settlers of an impending attack by the Indians; though the Indians lay low for a brief period, they eventually overtook the settlers in a deadly surprise attack. Ohio was then a wilderness fraught with an overabundance of wild animals to be on the lookout for, along with murders and scalpings by Indians in retaliation for various events by the whites as they saw the loss of their territory. It was also a time of hard, back-breaking physical labor for settlers to get their acreage up to par in order to earn a living from the land. In this lifestyle, men and women both lived, on average, only to about age 35, though occasionally much longer. In this wilderness, Chapman lived as a modern, unkempt “John the Baptist.” He was dressed in assorted rags, with long and scraggly hair and beard, with not exactly a pleasant aroma about him, and with dark eyes that seemed to sparkle and glow in the excitement or passion of his conversations. In the wild, he typically ate “honey, berries, fruit, some cornmeal for mush, [and] milk whenever it was available.” (Means, p.168) He was seen to walk barefoot in snow and on ice; he stuck pins and needles into his feet without flinching. In fact, the mid-19th century poet, novelist, and Ohio native, Rosella Rice, wrote that neither she nor her childhood friends made “fun of the man [or had] sport at his expense… No matter how oddly he was dressed or how funny he looked, we children never laughed at him, because our parents all loved and revered him as a good old man, a friend, and a benefactor.” (Means, pp. 176-177) In 1805, Chapman’s father and step-mother moved with several of their younger children from Longmeadow, Massachusetts to Duck Creek on the Muskingum River near Marietta, Ohio. If they had hoped for it, the welcome mat was not put out by their “long lost” son. Chapman’s father died only two years after arriving, but there had not been the usual happy family visits one would have expected between father and son. Instead, Chapman appears to have continued to keep his distance from his family except on rare occasions. Many thoughts fuel the speculation as to why, including the fact he had signed two promissory notes to family members without any documentation as to whether he paid his debt off or not. Perhaps he and his step-family did not get along. No one knows for sure why he kept his distance from them. Let it be said, however, that being with his family wasn’t anathema to him; rather, his on-the-move personality simply didn’t fit to make him into someone he was not, as in someone who would stay on the homestead, tending to the fields, animals and family. In his later life, Chapman’s work of planting both apple seeds and the New Church’s “fresh news” was considered to be that of an “extraordinary missionary…” by the Swedenborg church hierarchy. “Having no family, and inured to hardships of every kind, his operations are unceasing. He is now employed in traversing the district between Detroit and the closer settlements of Ohio…” (Means, p.192) In an 1821 letter regarding Chapman’s desire to trade land for religious books of the faith, something the church could not do, a Daniel Thunn called him “the Appleseed man…” A Reverend Holly wrote in a letter dated November 18, 1822 that Chapman was a man in Ohio “…they call…John Appleseed out there…” This is considered the first written record of the name given to an eccentric man who gradually evolved into the myth we call Johnny Appleseed. (Means, pp.192-193) As elusive and eccentric as he was in his lifetime, so he was in death. While the actual circumstances and date surrounding his death are somewhat sketchy, it comes as no surprise that his actual burial plot is also now unknown. Several witnesses stepped forward and claimed they knew where he was buried, including a self-proclaimed grandson of his half-brother Andrew - until it was determined John Chapman did not have a half-brother by that name. Not until 1916 did the Indiana Horticultural Society chose an area at the top of a grassy knoll to forever be known as Chapman’s burial site. Here, in Fort Wayne, an iron fence was erected with a plaque that reads as simple as the man was: John Chapman Johnny Appleseed Died 1845 Near Dexter City, Ohio is another monument. It stands seven feet tall, and is built with stones brought from every state in the nation. This plaque reads: “In Memory of John Chapman, Famous ‘Johnny Appleseed…’ Without a Hope of Recompense, Without a Thought of Pride, John Chapman Planted Apple Trees, And Preached, and Lived, and Died.” (Means, p.227) After his death, his estate was appraised with salable assets including one gray mare, 2000 apple trees in Jay County, 15,000 apple trees in Allen County, and multiple parcels of land. With the sale of all he had to show for his life, Chapman’s estate was valued at $409 (about $9,300 in 2011), not exactly pittance. However, every cent of it was eaten up by back taxes along with other unpaid bills owed to family and friends. Rather symbolic of how Chapman lived his life… with little true income or money in his pocket, living off the land and largesse of friends and strangers, nothing ostentatious about him. It is also interesting to note that Howard Means (author of Johnny Appleseed: The Man, the Myth, the American Story) was able to trace several plots of land on which Chapman had established orchards, but which have now become part and parcel of very modern cities, minus the orchards, of course. Many stories of Chapman/Appleseed have been proven false by Means’ extensive research as he ferreted out the details behind the stories. Various contemporaneous writings have also set forth romanticized versions of Chapman’s life which were then carried on into the 20th century, perpetuating the myths about the man. In attempting to explain an element of Chapman’s eccentricity, Means recalled that he had once worked with a psychiatric response team in Washington, D.C. Here, he found legally insane people often dressed in odd rags and tattered clothing and who smelled terrible – as eyewitnesses claimed of Chapman. Means found it interesting that the eyes of many seemed to glow as they talked, just as it was said Chapman’s did. These people clearly heard voices in their heads, often with acting-out behavior in response to the voices. Chapman also told his listeners he was given revelations directly from God. Means feels that Chapman meets the modern definition of insanity and shared “the old adage [that] if you talk to God, it’s prayer. If God talks to you, it’s schizophrenia.” (Means, p.274) Whether Chapman/Appleseed was schizophrenic or otherwise insane is not mine to determine, but merely to pass along as explanation. This was not the direction I expected Johnny Appleseed’s story to take. However we look at the life of Johnny Appleseed (aka John Chapman), he was a man who respected everyone he met, who harmed no one, not even a mosquito (putting out at least one fire rather than cause the death of more insects, per one eyewitness). He was an eccentric man who has loomed larger than life, yet a man about whom we have known very little… with often that little bit being erroneous. Among other authors who have worked at fleshing out the myths and stories behind the elusive Chapman/Appleseed, Means has done a remarkable job to give us the clearest picture possible of John Chapman’s life. While pointing out what is merely conjecture versus documented fact, to prove or disprove various and sundry reports, the colored stories and facts of Chapman’s life come alive. And therein we discover the enigma of one for whom truth has evolved into romanticized myths regarding a simple man we’ve all admired… Johnny Appleseed.

I puttered around the kitchen yesterday, an early October morning, baking Ed’s favorite chocolate chip cookies and my hearty squash. Every now and then I glanced out the windows. I love the scenery of our backyard… the gardens, bushes and trees… all planted by us once upon a golden time. And the creek, fields and hills beyond, all formerly part of Ed’s family’s farm, now filled with cart paths and well-kept green grass circles that swallow up dimpled golf balls… with a few that manage to find their way into our yard by some awesome force behind them! But, instead of a summery sun, I glanced out to see a dreary day… I know many of my friends say fall is their favorite season. And rightly so, I suppose – for the cooling temps are welcome relief from summer’s intense heat and humidity, and the typical brilliant leaf colors reflect different types of trees framed against the backdrop of a bright crisp azure blue sky with puffy clouds which all make for a gorgeous display of nature’s beauty. But this year, without a hard frost yet, our leaves are rather dull, devoid of those bright colors. I do enjoy the aromas of baked spiced apple and pumpkin pies, the odor of wood smoke wafting on the air (at times Ed can able to tell just what wood is being burned), familiar barn smells carried by a gentle breeze down the valley with a hint of well-cured silage, along with enjoying colorful fall flower arrangements, and the countrified pumpkin and gourd displays with corn stalks and hay bales some folks set up by their front door. But, truth be told, I find autumn to be the harbinger of a gray cold world with dying leaves that bequeath us with stark-naked tree limbs. Yet, when studied, those limbs have a distinctive roughened beauty all their own etched against the sky of any shade. And, though there are gray drizzly skies, and cold, damp days that chill to the bone… they do have a plus side with lots of delicious homemade baked goods, stews, soups and chili with cornbread! I much prefer spring and its promised return of new life and summer’s golden rays. So, as this poem began to form several years ago, I tried to focus on the whispered secrets of fall – in its colorful beauty pointing to winter’s pristine white splendor, and the resurgence of life in the future that can only be hinted at now. October Whispers Linda A. Roorda The lonely parade of falling colors a silent drizzle and cocooning fog consuming dampening turn thoughts inward melancholy bereaved for the joy of summer basking in bright warmth now shrouded by hazy sheen forcing hearts to gaze ahead and to leave the past to fall behind etched in time yet even now renewed in visions of white and whispers soft of secrets hidden for the way it is and soon shall become. ~~ Photo taken by author in 2019.

So very well said/written... The intensity of stress is why I retired early last year, and so thankful and blessed to be able to sub in our local school system, helping others... Thanks for posting this article!!

Change… whether visible on the exterior or inside and unseen, it can be a hard adjustment to make. I don’t like change. Those who know me, know that aspect of me well. Change has not always been kind to me. But, once I wrap my brain around it, understand and accept said change, I roll with it and move forward. Because, as I’ve grown older, and wiser with the years, I’ve learned change is inescapable… of value for the lessons it teaches… and have learned not to fear it. Perhaps some of you welcome change… and I admire you for that! So, what is it about change we don’t like? Nature exhibits obvious and dramatic changes right before our eyes. From winter’s dazzling white to its not-so-white coverings of stark-bare limbs of trees reaching out and the dirty-white snow on roadsides… to spring bursting forth with new life in its many-colored splendor as birds bring joyful song to our lives… to the warmth and long-term blooms and verdant green of long summer days… to the casting off of autumn’s multi-colored leaves and darkening skies signaling the portent of dark and dreary days ahead… these are changes we clearly see and can identify with. We understand these changes, even welcome them, as we accept the inevitable in the forward march of time. We visibly change, too. From the moment we’re born, we continually change... as we grow and mature from infancy on through adulthood and elderhood. We never stop changing as we age, and our appearance gives credence to this process which is as old as time itself. But what we don’t see are the changes beneath the surface. In nature, it’s the life substance within a plant that moves it forward with growth to change through the seasons. For us, change is evident in our learning processes, our maturation. Just raising a child provides ample evidence of virtually daily change and growth - physically, emotionally and spiritually. Our physical change and growth are obvious. From helpless newborn to the excitement of childhood growth, learning to do things “myself,” to the physical growth and aging process propelling each of us forward into young adulthood and on through the decades as we become “senior citizens,” change never stops. We know it, we see it, and we feel it. Emotional change, though, is less obvious, yet still evident in our behavior and reactions as we mature from childish ways and selfish ambition. “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became [an adult], I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face…and now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” (I Corinthians 13:11-13NIV) Emotional maturity develops as we process our wins and losses in life… as we learn to share, to understand and appreciate each other, to show empathy for someone else’s situation, to feel pain and loss, to feel and share joy, peace, and more. All these emotions are developed inside, invisible within our thought processes, but are evidenced in our maturing reactions. And then there is spiritual change in our faith. This, too, is an unseen process of growth and maturation... a change that is often and especially brought about by life’s trials. “Consider it pure joy…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, not lacking anything. If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all…” (James 1:2-5 N IV) As we grow in our spiritual faith journey, becoming more like Christ, we are constantly learning and understanding, changing our hearts and minds from within. We learn to accept change instead of grumbling and complaining… learn to understand and grow by going through the difficulties rather than simply trying to escape and get out from under the trial. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.” (Proverbs 3:5-6) For it’s often that trial with its pain and tears which brings about learning and understanding - a process of growth... as we gracefully accept true change and joy brought about by the difficult and painful journey. And it’s only in that painful journey that we grow under God’s wisdom… as we become either embittered and hardened, or more gentle and kind... an invisible change within our heart, yet visible in our attitude and behavior. Changes Without and Within Linda A. Roorda The birds have hushed their lilting songs Bright colored flowers have faded away The trees have turned to brilliant hues And the sky with clouds is gathering dark. A silence of sorts ensues with the change Though here and there a bird can be heard But ever still grows the ambience Of nature’s peace midst colors of fall. Yet what we see belies the fact That underneath the surface calm Lies greater change than evidence shows A turmoil within to stir transition. For what can’t be seen is the moving force Behind the progress to destiny’s goal. So let the heart of every soul Heed wisdom’s call, accepting its purpose. This heart of change is all you ask That humbly I come as You draw me near To be still and know that You’re in control As you define Your place in my life. Inevitable change without and within As time moves forward on its forever path. Then what of our heart when the depth is exposed, Are we bitter in change… or more gentle and kind?

“You have breast cancer.” Among the scariest words we can hear. I was in shock. My mind was racing. Tears began to trickle down my cheeks. I was both numb and yet devastated emotionally. It caught me totally off guard. Me? Cancer? I could not think clearly. My heart was pounding. I was in panic mode. This cannot be happening! I have so much to do to take care of my husband. I don’t have time for this interruption in my life! October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Diagnosed in 2014, I remain cancer free. Because a grieving process is normal when diagnosed, I share my story in the hope it helps someone else. My story was also shared in the past on the Christian Reformed Church Network website, and my cousin’s wife Carol submitted it to the Bradford Co., PA “Daily Review” who plan to publish it this month – all to remind others how important exams for cancer are for both women and men, because… I had actually intended to cancel my mammogram. There was too much on my plate and I simply didn’t want to take the time to go for this exam in my already hectic schedule. But, my husband (God bless him!) told me to take care of myself for once, and go get that mammogram. Dutifully, and now thankfully, I listened to him. I could not even have my husband with me when I was given the results of my biopsy - he was home with his own health issues, particularly severe constant dizziness when upright, along with extensive muscle and joint pain, recovering from life-threatening pancreatitis, and has not been able to work for several months. Being blind, he cannot drive me to and from my appointments. He can’t be with me to give emotional support at my appointments, or even be with me at my surgeries. He can’t be there to help ask questions, or simply put his strong arm of support around me… until I get home and share my fears with him. And he’s been so good to me, so loving and supportive, sharing his Godly wisdom to help calm and soothe my anxious thoughts. God blessed me with the best husband I could possibly have! But, I’m afraid. I don’t know what lies ahead. Will I get more cancer? How will I take care of my husband and everything else if I’m incapacitated? I don’t want to deal with all that I’m being forced to deal with. I want to be left alone. I want to be a little girl again without any cares or troubles. But that’s not reality. Reality means I will seek answers. And so, as a medical/radiology transcriptionist, I research my diagnosis. I read the literature from my surgeon’s office, and devour the words which reputable online medical centers or cancer associations have posted to discuss the disease and the best treatment options available. Objectively, I understand what they’re talking about… I know what the words mean. But, deep down inside, I don’t want to digest it. I want to push it all away. It’s become too personal. Yet, I have decisions to make. Decisions I never thought I’d be making. I’m more comfortable being on the typing end of the diagnostic language, feeling sorry for “my” patients. Knowing that others have gone through this diagnosis and treatment before, and survived, is both helpful and unhelpful… mostly because each diagnosis and the dealing and healing is personal. No one else can go through, or feel, exactly what you do. I talk with my husband’s aunt who faced her own cancer diagnosis several years ago. She made her decisions, and did what needed to be done. I like her attitude. She is a true woman of faith, an inspiration to me as she looks to our Lord for his guidance every step of the way. And gradually, after making panicked decisions, then rethinking and picking each option apart, I come to a decision I can live with. A decision my family and closest friends support me in. And I’m okay… being reassured to know my cancer has been caught at an early stage. For there are others I’ve known with a cancer diagnosis and prognosis worse than mine – those who have recovered after surgery and treatments and done well, those who have been through extensive treatments only to relapse, and those who have lost their lives from such a devastating disease… And my heart goes out to every cancer patient and their families for all they have gone through. This poem was written in three sections at three different times since my diagnosis. I was amazed at how the words seemed to flow with only minor adjustments. But then, I shouldn’t be amazed at a God who has held my whole life in His hands. And I praise the One who blesses me with the words and thoughts to write. And, while contemplating it all, this favorite verse of my late daughter, Jennifer, came to mind. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” (Philippians 4:13) I had embroidered it into a floral design to hang on the wall when she went to Houghton College, also making embroideries for my other two children, Emily and Dan, with their favorite verses. I also found reassurance in “…know[ing] that in all things God works for the good of those who love him...” (Romans 8:28) While reading around this verse, I see, “…hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently. In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us…in accordance with God’s will.” (Romans 8:24-27) Even as I face my diagnosis head on, not knowing what to do or if I’m making the right decisions, God is there. He answers my heart’s prayers, which I initially didn’t even know how to express other than “Help me, God!” Then, as I read Romans 15:13, these comforting words enter my soul with more meaning than ever before, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” Along this journey, I even found laughter… in, of all places, the book “Chicken Soup for the Soul, The Cancer Book, 101 Stories of Courage, Support and Love.” [pp.156-158] It was the kind of hearty laughter that brought tears to my eyes… a rolling-on-the-floor kind of laughter! It may have been stifled for a while, but laughter is still within me. And soon, smiles will once again reflect the joy down deep in my heart! So, I’m at peace. I find comfort in knowing God knew this obstacle on my journey before I even came to be. He knew I would struggle, but He also knew how He would continue to draw me to His side, and provide loving, caring family and friends to support me. And to know the extent of caring thoughts and prayers from family, friends and neighbors in my community is overwhelming. As I’ve grappled with life’s changes, I know the Lord has had to carry me at times, but He has also led me through the maze as I’ve slowly learned to accept and deal with what He has allowed to come my way. And I renew my hope in Him as He leads me forward. HOPE Linda A. Roorda When dark is the way and fear gathers ‘round When the road seems long with twists and turns The unexpected now comes into view Quite unprepared, my course it alters. The vista ahead fraught with fear and stress. How can this be? Can’t happen to me! How do I deal with changes to come? My plate is too full. I can’t handle more! Why, Lord? I ask. I don’t understand! As I plunge into the depths of despair. I’m at a loss. Why this obstacle? Why me? But then… Why should it not be? Some days I’m numb. Some days I just cry. With a loss of hope, and a heavy heart Many life changes I don’t want to face A grief ensues, a mourning what was. As sadness descends and stress consumes I want to cry. I want to scream out. I haven’t the time. I just cannot deal. Difficult questions now haunt all my thoughts. When darkness of night seems far too long And no answers come to pleading prayers Hold me tight Lord, in Your arms of peace That without fear a new day I may face. So I withdraw to an inner retreat My haven safe away from the pain A place where I rest to gather my fears Handing them over, releasing my frets. For there on the side just waiting for me With arms open wide He hears my deep sighs The cries of my heart, the fears locked inside Taking my burdens and guiding my steps. Who but you, Lord? Who else but you? Who cares enough to count every tear? Who feels the pain, the fear and anguish That steals the joy from within my heart? Hope like a beacon peeks brightly through tears With a peace that calms my troubled seas Always at my side with a whisper soft Drawing me near and holding me close. Though I’ve felt lost while clinging to faith You’re always here embracing with love Returning my joy to face each new dawn Giving me hope in the peace of Your Light. ~~ May/June 2014

Learning that last Sunday, 09/19/21, was Abuse Awareness Day in the Christian Reformed Church (in which both Ed and I grew up), I am sharing my blog which was posted to their website in 2017. There once was a man who appeared on the scene. Suave and debonair with confidence bold. Flattery oozed like syrup sweet. And despite her protests, he flattered yet more. After all, he said, she deserved the praise for she was worth it. Despite her protests, she absorbed the attention… until she understood his world of deceit. Abuse encompasses an array of distorted behaviors and abuses within friendships and marriages, destroying God’s gifts. Lacking respect, those with self-centered narcissistic and/or predatory traits have a need for power and control over others. They are confident and prideful. Their goal is to exploit, crossing boundary lines with intimidation to prove their superiority, having a need to diminish the worth of others to feel good about themselves. They claim repeated mocking put-downs are jokes. If you attempt to break the cycle, they contend you can’t take a joke, are too emotional, and too sensitive. “Like a maniac shooting flaming arrows of death is one who deceives their neighbor and says, ‘I was only joking!’” (Proverbs 26:18-19 NIV) With callous disregard, they lie when faced with truth. They may abuse emotionally, verbally or physically. Their story changes to suit confrontation as they feign innocence, create confusion, and claim they don’t understand what you’re talking about. In attempts to hold them accountable, they skillfully play the innocent hurting victim, project blame onto the true victim, and will not take personal responsibility for their own issues. They don’t feel a need to apologize, claiming they did nothing wrong – evidence of a hardened heart. Predatory grooming, done in specific stages, is universal against children, teens and adults to control with a perverted form of trust to the perpetrator’s benefit. After targeting someone perceived as vulnerable, they reel in an unsuspecting heart with the flattery of false love. Keying in on filling an emotional need, they try to isolate their victim in secrecy from those who would realize what’s happening divide-and-conquer technique). Innocuous sexual advances are made which gradually become bolder until the abuser thinks control can be maintained to score the ultimate goal. Grooming also manipulates the victim’s responses to garner increased affection. If you desire to please others, you’ll meet their needs. In time, you will be manipulated into doing more of their bidding. They’ll make excuses and manipulatively use Scripture so you’ll accept their abuse, thwarting your protests. When they think they’ve got you under control, emotional destruction begins. You are despised for having qualities of love and joy which they cannot feel, necessitating an endless pursuit of new victims to manipulate in order to fill their heart’s void. If you back away from their chaos, they may use threats, turn angry or violent, quickly revert back to a loving persona to throw you off balance, and resort to stalking behavior. Unless they show and express true sorrow and repentance for their behavior with evidence of genuine change, walk away from their abuse… and stay away. For we read, “There are six things that the Lord hates, seven that are an abomination to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that make haste to run to evil, a false witness who breathes out lies, and one who sows discord among brothers.” (Proverbs 6:16-19 ESV) The opposite of such discord is a love which embodies all that is good. “Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” (I Corinthians 13:4-7 ESV) As we speak with such love, we encourage each other. “Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.” (Ephesians 4:29-32 ESV) Typically, those who trust others have a heart of empathy, are naively innocent (without “street smarts”), and are more easily taken advantage of. Predators know this and zero in on their target like a hunter on its prey. To realize that someone would target you for their advantage is to feel a range of emotions from guilt and shame for having been used, to anger at another’s attempts to destroy you. Genuine love is not in the abuser’s heart despite claims to the contrary. With evil intent, you are used for their benefit - a lack of respect for your worth. When that is recognized, you are on your way to recovery and healing. I know… I was a victim. Sadly, several times because I simply forgave and moved forward, trying to make the relationships work. Not until after I had walked away from them and no longer allowed any contact, did the abuse end. Yet, out of the experience came wisdom from God. Mutual friends who have never fallen under the blinding spell of narcissistic and/or predatory deception, nor suffered attacks of retaliation, do not see the abuse. They see only the passive mask, the public face of supposed innocent humility, and often excuse and enable abusers. After all, they’re so kind and loving, so good to everyone – until, behind the scenes, you cross them, buck their mistreatment, and begin to confront their wrongs with truth privately or publicly. Yes, these types of abuses are found within the church, the perfect cover with our Christ-like love for, and generous forgiveness of, one another. As the body of Christ, we should listen, believe, respect, and support the victim who dares step forward. The abuser only recovers when the façade of innocence is removed by admission of wrong, repentance, and proves the desire for a changed heart. To the youngster or adult being swayed by abusive pressure or bullying - hold tight to your convictions, ideals and honor. Don’t allow anyone to take these from you. Respect yourself enough to say “No” and walk away – whether it be “No” to drugs, “No” to someone wanting to take away your innocence, “No” to emotional or physical abuse, or “No” to sexting, sexual abuse, or sex trafficking. Walk away and seek advice from a trusted, qualified professional to help you stand firm against such unwanted pressure. Respect yourself as a child of God. Don’t be taken down. Taken Down Linda A. Roorda She was taken down the garden path And showered with seduction’s prose, Sweet words of praise and silken flattery That touched her heart to follow his goals. She trusted him and his glowing words Though his zest for life held deceitful charm, As her heart of love for all in her world Was purposely swept by grooming words smooth. How easily swayed is a trusting soul Who believes and thinks the best of her friends, Yet who is misled by the foxy wiles Of one who claims humility’s garb. Why the conquest instead of friendship? Why the seeking to own gentle hearts? Why the pleasure in taking away That which is not yours to alone enjoy? How can you claim a God-honoring life As you betray a friend’s trusting heart? Such evil flays the inner soul And leaves a wound not easily healed. But comes reality when the truth sets in And she regains boundaries once lost As true emotions with selfless empathy Emerge once again to prove her value. For in disrespect concealed by flattery Lies the evil of a planned defeat. He cannot abide reality of love, And must destroy the one with a heart. As she unravels the disillusions And begins to heal her eyes are opened. Emotional depths of her heart and soul Are restored in full, her peace made complete. ~~

I can’t swim. Oh, I took lessons… learned to float and doggy paddle at the Clifton, NJ YMCA. And I loved playing in the water with my siblings and cousins at Green Pond, a lake in northwestern New Jersey where my aunt and uncle had a cottage. Didn’t even mind being in water way over my head. There, in the safe swimming section, we’d jump off the dock or have our dad toss us over his shoulder into the deep water. I loved it! But then… I almost drowned. I was either 10 or 11. Our family had driven out to the lake for a day of fun. And here I was laying across a ski board tethered by rope to my uncle’s boat. I was either very brave or very foolish, but found myself being pulled across the water clinging to that board, enjoying the ride! Until the boat took a fast turn… and the wake caught me off guard. The board flipped over, hit me on the head, and I lost my grip. Flailing furiously in the water, I tumbled over and over, struggling to hold my breath, trying to break the surface for air when I felt something under my feet… all in a matter of some very long seconds. Planting my feet down, I stood up, and dared to open my eyes… shocked and absolutely relieved to find I was chest deep in water, standing on a very large rock or a ledge in the “middle” of the lower end of the large lake! I was so sure I would drown while flailing around… instead I was safe!! Trauma clicked in later. I cannot float, nor can I swim. I sink. Don’t even try to teach me… Ed tried when we were dating, and he quickly found out my panic was very real when he let go of me in the deep end of the pool. I still need to wear floaties to enjoy the water. I’ve long realized I was held in the arms of God that day decades ago. No one dreamed there would possibly be a rock or ledge with shallow water out there. My father watched from the shore with his heart in his throat, afraid for my life. But he never told me that until decades later. This incident reminds me of how we are loved and held safe in the arms of not only God, but the arms of our family. As a helpless infant, we are tenderly held and kept safe in our parents’ arms. As we grow up, their loving arms are still there… ready to protect us and guide us. Then, all too soon we’re ready to leave the nest and fly off into the world on our own. At some point between thinking we know it all and realizing we don’t, we bring the wisdom we’ve learned back to our aging parents, understanding what it was they tried to teach us as we now teach our children… and find we’ve come full circle. And therein I see the arms of God… holding and caring for us, teaching and guiding us… accepting us for who we are because He created us and knows who we are meant to be. Safe In My Arms Linda A. Roorda From the very moment that you came to be You were held safe, safe in my arms A helpless babe, you looked up to me Your needs were met with love undivided. When you fell down and bruised your ego You came running to comforting arms You looked for me to answer concerns Questions of life with wisdom to gain. But as you grew you looked to yourself I wasn’t needed, not so much anymore You thought you held the keys to life’s goals As facing forward you met the world’s pace. And then one day you understood all The depths of love and sacrificial gifts Your arms reached out to hold me secure To share with me wisdom you had gained. Is it not true full circle we’ve come From infant small to adult mature And is it not true the life we have lived Is mirrored within God’s love for us all. For didn’t His arms hold tightly our life That when we fell He gently restored And when we stood alone on life’s stage We were held safe, safe in His arms. ~~ Photo Credit: Dock at Lower Green Pond, NJ taken by Linda Roorda spring 1974. Murky image from old camera used specifically in recalling this event.