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Linda Roorda

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Blog Entries posted by Linda Roorda

  1. Linda Roorda
    There’s a friend who holds your heart over many years, and over many long and weary paths. The friend who freely forgives when you admit your words or actions were wrong. The friend who’s there when life gets tough and you think you’ll never get back up to face another day. The friend who shares your joy as if it were their own.  The friend whose loving heart picks right up where you both left off when distance, time, and commitments take their toll. The friend who shares your dreams and helps you reach them.  The friend who…
    You know! You can finish that sentence from how your friends have endeared themselves to your heart! For there’s nothing better than the love of a true friend. You both encourage to help the other achieve their best. But there’s another friend who always walks beside us, eager to welcome the wanderer with arms open wide, ready to share the depth of His love with us… our Lord. And, in a way that is most meaningful to each of us, He longs to share that love… in the beauty of the world on display all around us, in the joy of unexpected treasures, in life’s simple but profound moments, in “coincidences” that astound our finite minds… in other words, in unique and special moments of every-day life.
    Still, there’s another kind of friend who readily gives his life for ours.  As we read in John 15:13, “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”  Could, or would, we do that for one of our friends?  Many have done so in war, in the ultimate sacrifice of their life to protect and save others.  But ordinarily, we wouldn’t think of taking such a step. 
    Yet, “God demonstrated his own love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8)  “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus.”  (Romans 3:23)  It’s only through Jesus, that precious little baby whose birth we celebrate at Christmas, who grew to manhood with a rich ministry, and who lay down His life to die for each of us, and who arose that we might gain eternal salvation: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3:16)  That, indeed, is quite the friend!
    And I, for one, can’t help but think that I don’t deserve such profound love. Yet, even in that thought is the wonder of just how precious His love truly is... knowing He loved me first and drew me to Himself despite who I am or what I might have ever done. For me He came to earth.  For my life He lived. For my soul He died… and not just for me, but for each one of us. And with our acceptance of His gracious gift of salvation, we long to bring glory and honor and praise back to Him in all that we do…
    In accepting His most gracious gift, we can spend eternity with Him in His glorious heavenly home. For that, we will humbly bow our head and thank Him, and give Him all our praise and worship… for He’s the closest of friends, the one and only…  
    You’re The Friend
    Linda A. Roorda 
    My Lord, You’re the friend I don’t deserve
    Who’s cared enough to die for my soul
    Whose love envelopes my heart with peace
    Whose joyful song lifts my load of cares.
    ~
    You’re the friend I choose when others desert
    When the path is long with no end in sight
    When the trials come and the way grows drear
    You hold my heart in nail-scarred hands.
    ~
    You’re the friend who stays and never abandons
    Who whispers wisdom to gently strengthen
    Whose loving words guide wandering feet
    Who draws me away from sin and its harm.
    ~
    You’re the friend who calls and tenderly seeks
    Who opens my eyes to wisdom’s beauty
    That my heart would yearn, Your knowledge to gain
    As truth I pursue with heart, soul and mind.
    ~
    You’re the friend who holds faith’s mercy and grace
    For nothing I do can ever repay
    Salvation’s gift as exposed I stand
    And all is revealed in depths of my soul.
    ~
    You’re the friend whose love softly covers
    As humbly I come with contrition deep
    Trusting your grip, I reach for your hands
    Hands that were pierced to carry my soul.
    ~
    For you’re the friend who will never leave
    You’re the friend who seeks the depths of my soul
    You’re the friend in whom faith finds sweet mercy
    For you’re the friend whose praises I sing.
    ~~
    Linda Roorda writes from her home in Spencer. 
  2. Linda Roorda
    When the Civil War came to an end with Gen. Lee’s surrender to Gen. Grant on April 9 1865, the prisoner of war camps in both the North and the South began to empty.  Unfortunately, many prisoners never saw their home and loved ones again after giving the ultimate sacrifice.  Though a multitude of men did make it back to their families, they took with them the emotional and physical scars of prison camp – from starvation to disease, along with the after effects of war’s emotional turmoil for all soldiers. 
    This was a very difficult chapter to write regarding the suffering of America’s men in prison camps on both sides of the American Civil War.  But I believe it is necessary to understand the depths of such tragedies as we honor and respect those of our collective ancestors who were held captive behind those gates.  If only the untold suffering of humanity in war were reason enough to end all wars. 
    As noted in my previous Homestead article, April 1865, the involvement and losses of extended ancestral relatives brings this war and its prison camps just a little closer to home.  Four young men went off to war, but only one survived to live a full life.  John D. Leonardson (survived all 4 years, lived to old age) and his brother Henry Leonardson (died after 6 months on the battlefield), brothers of my gr-gr-grandmother, Mary Eliza (Leonardsona) Ottman.  Chauncey McNeill (died at Andersonville March 1865) and his brother DeWitt C. McNeill (died age 22 in 1868 from effects of Confederate prison camp), sons of Robert McNeill, an older brother of my ancestor, Jesse McNeill. 
    Just the thought of Civil War prisons strikes fear into us as we pause to think about the inhumane conditions inflicted upon those confined behind the four walls.  For over a century, the deplorable and deadly conditions of two major prison camps left a bitter memory for all too many - one was local Camp Chemung in Elmira, NY, a situation where truth was denied and kept from the public, with the other prison being Camp Sumter, aka Andersonville, in Georgia… equally as nefarious as its northern counterpart, each with similarities to the other, yet fraught with many differences.
    Elmira (aka Hellmira) was chosen for southern prisoners by Col. William Hoffman, the commissary general of prisoners in Washington, D.C.  The first captured Confederate soldiers arrived at Elmira’s Barracks No.3 on July 6, 1864, with the last prisoners walking out of camp July 11, 1865. 
    Some prisoners, dishonorably called “oathies” or “oathtakers” by fellow Confederate prisoners, were released early if they took the “oath of allegiance.”  Though very few were actually released early from Elmira, those taking the oath at any prison were required to remain in the North for the duration of the war; in fact, several who took the oath were hired for jobs within the Elmira prison camp at 5 cents a day and given better rations.  [Horigan, p. 32] 
    Before their release at the end of the war, each prisoner was also required to take an oath of loyalty to the Union before being given a train ticket back home.  “I, ______, do solemnly swear, in presence of Almighty God, that I will henceforth faithfully support, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, and the union of the States thereunder; and that I will, in like manner, abide by and faithfully support all acts of Congress passed during the existing rebellion with reference to slaves, so long and so far as not repealed, modified or held void by Congress, or by decision of the Supreme Court; and that I will, in like manner, abide by and faithfully support all proclamations of the President made during the existing rebellion having reference to slaves, so long and so far as not modified or declared void by decision of the Supreme Court.  So help me God.”  Excerpted from Abraham Lincoln’s “Proclamation of Amnesty and Reconstruction” dated December 8, 1863, wording varying in different locales.  [Janowski, p. 190]
    Today, there are many within the Elmira community who are totally unaware of what once transpired on the ground upon which they live and walk.  There are monuments, stones and plaques scattered on land which once held a Civil War prison camp, and granite markers have been placed at both the northeast and southeast corners of the prison camp.  The original flagpole, on private property, was donated in 1992 to the city of Elmira.  It was placed next to a stone monument on Elmira Water Board’s property near the Chemung River.  The monument memorializes “the soldiers who trained at Camp Rathbun May 1861-1864 and the Confederate Prisoners of War incarcerated at Camp Chemung July 1864-July 1865.”  [Horigan, pp.196-197] 
    Those who died as prisoners are interred at Woodlawn National Cemetery in Elmira; the white gravestones of Union soldiers are rounded on top while the Confederate gravestones are pointed. 
    One of 35 buildings (each about 100 feet long) from the prison compound, stored in pieces, will be reconstructed during 2014-2015 and set up on part of the original prison site along the river.  It will serve as a museum to honor the memory of those Confederate prisoners who once struggled to survive and those who lost their lives.  [WETM-TV Evening News, April 29, 2014]
    But monuments alone do not a story tell.  The lives of our collective ancestors were forever affected by this war fought for the preservation of a united nation, and for the freedom gained by thousands of slaves.  This is but one chapter in our nation’s fallible history as we face the stark realities of life 150-plus years ago.
    Elmira is a beautiful community established along the Chemung River on land once home to the Iroquois Nation prior to the American Revolution.  Canal boats up to 60 feet long and 18 feet wide plied the local waters of Chemung Canal and the finger lakes to connect with the Erie Canal, a route of great importance in transporting both agricultural and manufactured goods throughout the state.  The productivity of Elmira’s several small factories and the agricultural goods produced locally offered a quality of life that was enviable elsewhere.  Yet, at times, Elmira was “referred to derisively as a ‘canal town’” because of the influx of canal workers and their unsavory character.  [Elmira:  Death Camp of the North, by Michael Horigan, Stackpole Books, Mechanicsburg, PA, 2002, p. 4.]
    Elmira’s flat land along the Chemung River was considered optimal for training volunteer soldiers.  The same ground had twice held the New York State Fair during the 1850s.  Foster Barracks, known as Camp Rathbun by 1862, later renamed Camp Chemung or Barracks No.3, was situated west of the village line.  This area adjacent to the river, including Foster’s Pond and race track, was established as a training and embarkation center in 1861 for New York’s soldiers.  It was ideal with the Erie Railway and Northern Central Railway traversing Elmira, providing transportation of men both into the city and southward to battle.  Elmira’s Camp Rathbun then became an assembly ground for federal draftees in 1863.  With barracks already built to house those thousands of Union soldiers, it seemed the perfect location to confine Confederate prisoners of war in 1864.
    “[Ausburn] Towner's history of 1892 and maps from the period indicate the camp occupied an area running about 1,000 feet (300 m) west and approximately the same distance south of a location a couple of hundred feet west of Hoffman Street and about 35 feet south of Water Street, bordered on the south by Foster's Pond, on the north bank of the Chemung River.”   
    Lt. Col. Seth Eastman, commander of Elmira’s Camp Chemung, was informed by Col. Hoffman in Washington that he should prepare to receive Confederate prisoners.  Despite Eastman’s reply that Barracks No. 3 could hold, at most, 6000 prisoners (later lowered to efficiently house 4000), Hoffman insisted that Elmira be prepared for more prisoners. 
    Camp Chemung (Barracks No.3) was selected to house prisoners not only for its convenient location, but for the fact it already held a mess hall which could seat about 1200 to 1500 at a time.  The building also housed a kitchen equipped to cook for 5000, and a bakery that could supply up to 6000 meals.  Twenty new barracks were built while repairs were made on older existing buildings.  A double-walled fence was also built to encompass the camp’s thirty-two acres.  Guardhouses were built along these fence walls with a walkway for sentries set 4 feet below the top of the fence.  The camp’s main gate was located on Water Street in Elmira while an additional gate on the south side provided access for prisoners to bathe in the Chemung River during good weather.
    Confusing communications were continually sent from Hoffman in Washington, with Eastman being told several times to prepare for upwards of 8-10,000 prisoners of war.  Repeatedly informing Hoffman that Elmira could not handle more than 4000 to 6000 prisoners total, Camp Chemung’s numbers ultimately swelled to 12,122 prisoners.  By war’s end, a total of 2950 men had died of disease and exposure, many with a lack of appropriate rations and medical care.  [Horigan, p.180]  Although Elmira’s death rate was 24%, it was still below that of Andersonville’s 29% where just over 45,000 prisoners were held on even less acreage. 
    With a lack of proper buildings to house the men, A-shaped tents were used despite the coming bitter cold of northern winters.  The sheer volume of prisoners, a lack of proper living quarters, poor quality of food and water, the lack of fresh fruits and vegetables, limited rations, the lack of blankets, and flooding from the river all resulted in scurvy, dysentery, typhoid, pneumonia and smallpox.  As these issues served to overwhelm the limited medical staff and what little medication they could procure, death was inevitable for too many men. 
    Those who survived Elmira’s prison often did so through their own ingenuity and the largesse of townsfolk.  Rats were killed and eaten.  Unfortunately, clothing for the southern prisoners was restricted to the color gray, that of their uniforms.  When families sent clothing to their loved ones, if it wasn’t gray it was burned – despite the weather conditions and the need for warmer clothing.  Early on, prisoners were able to purchase items from the camp sutler including foods, tobacco, writing paper and implements, clothing, etc. but even this beneficial transaction was eventually limited.  Letters written home were also censored both coming and going.  
    Yet, for decades the deplorable and deadly condition of this prison camp were denied and kept from the public.  "The horrors of a camp where prisoners of war are crowded into a confined space, poorly clad, uncomfortably housed, insufficiently fed, and scantily provided with medical attendance, hospital accommodations, and other provisions for the sick, form one of the most deplorable features of any war, but none of these can apply with truth to the camp at Elmira, nor can they be attached for a moment to the reputation or become a portion of the history of the fair valley of the Chemung."  [The History of Chemung County, Ausburn Towner, 1892.] 
    In reality, it took over 130 years for researchers to begin unearthing the hidden truth about Elmira’s prison camp.  These researchers have now documented the full story and stark realities of Elmira’s prison camp which have been long been silenced. 
    Personal stories are being told of some of the thousands of Confederate men who were imprisoned, who died, and who survived.  A unique tribute is In Their Honor:  Soldiers of the Confederacy, The Elmira Prison Camp written by Diane Janowski, a resident of Elmira, New York.  Janowski states, “This book is not about war strategy, nor conditions inside the camp - it is about how the men and boys ended up in Elmira.  Where other books about the Elmira camp are very clinical, this one is very personal.  Families' words and feelings show just how strong Civil War sentiments still are in 2009.  That’s why I’ve written this book.  You can hold this book and point to a name and say, ‘That's my great-great-great grandfather.’” 
    The first 400 prisoners behind Elmira’s gates began their journey on July 2, 1864 from Point Lookout, Maryland.  With one dying enroute, 399 entered the grounds of Elmira’s Civil War Prison Camp on July 6th at 6 a.m.  They had been part of Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia, having seen the worst the war had to offer at Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg and Spotsylvania.  Their experiences clearly echoed what Union Army’s William Tecumseh Sherman (considered the best field commander of the Civil War) had said more than a decade after the war:  “I have seen war in all of its horrible aspects.  I have seen fields devastated, homes ruined, and cities laid waste; I have seen the carnage of battle, the blood of the wounded and the cold faces of the dead looking up at the stars.  That is war.  War is hell.”  [Horigan, p. 34]  But, these prisoners of war had just entered another hell.
    A few men who arrived in the ensuing months were recognized by locals as former residents of Elmira or surrounding towns.  Peering through the camp’s fence, townsfolk got a glimpse of the Southern rebels in their midst.  The editor of Elmira’s Advertiser, Charles Fairman, noted that local townsfolk could hardly bypass the camp “…without a peep at the varmints…”  [Horigan, p. 35]  This curiosity even evolved into a venture where, for 10 cents, folks could observe the hated Confederate prisoners from an observatory set up opposite the camp.  As much as “forty dollars per day” was made by “an enterprising Yankee at Elmira.”  [Horigan, p.59]  “Neighbors along the camp sold lemonade, cake, peanuts, crackers, and beer to spectators.”  [Janowski, p.9]
    On the ninth day of prisoner occupation, an inspection was made of the premises with a mixed review.  Warnings were tendered on Foster’s Pond, a stagnant liability within the compound, in need of immediate attention.  The low-lying sinks/latrines near the pond were considered to be another source of disease, not to mention the permeating stench.  The inspector indicated that drinking water was of good quality.  Further correspondence again indicated Foster’s Pond was in desperate need of being drained to prevent disease.  Shallow wells were drilled, but they were ultimately contaminated by the latrines draining into Foster’s Pond with deadly consequences. 
    With hundreds of prisoners sent by rail to Elmira, the inevitable happened on July 16, 1864 near Shohola, PA.  A major train wreck was caused by a drunken telegraph operator who signaled the prisoner-of-war train that all was clear ahead when, in fact, a coal train was actually heading their way.  Messages of the coal train’s proximity had been missed by the stuporous man.  The crash killed both Union and Confederate soldiers, wounding many others, while five prisoners managed to escape over the mountains, a fortuitous opportunity for them.  The lack of a prison hospital equipped with competent surgeons was now sorely felt as over 80 injured men arrived at Elmira.  Apparently, it took almost five weeks more before a chief surgeon was present on the premises.  [Horigan, pp.43, 44]
    The shortage of clothing and blankets was another situation still not rectified as 3000 more prisoners were slated to arrive soon and join the 1900 already there.  By the first of August 1864, the camp had officially acquired 4424 Confederate prisoners, 11 of whom had died, while two had escaped.  And still they kept coming.  On August 6th, Maj. Eugene Sanger of the state of Maine reported for duty as chief surgeon… that is, after the military authorities finally recognized the need of such services at Elmira. 
    Proving the commanders had a magnanimous side, the Rev. Thomas K. Beecher of Elmira’s Park Church was granted permission to hold the first religious service inside the camp in late July.  He was half-brother to Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”  Her novel, published in 1852, is considered by many to be the book which set the foundation for the burgeoning anti-slavery sentiment which eventually permeated the Civil War ideology.
    Skilled artists have left behind their sketches which depict camp life.  Rings and trinkets were made and sold by prisoners.  Union officers bought many of these items, reselling them for greater profit.  Those handy at carpentry skills made furniture with which the Union officers filled their homes.  And the prisoners even began making the pine coffins in which to bury their own.
    John W. Alexander of South Carolina, writing his memoirs for family in about 1896, noted that “the guards [at Elmira] seemed to be a part of the climate:  cold, calculating, and merciless.  The only avenue to his soul was the greenback route, and this we were too poor to travel.  …everyone able to walk was supposed to go to the cookhouse twice a day.”  [Janowski, pp.35, 36]   Living in tents, he and the others received their wood for the day; one stick to a tent.  “As our fireplaces were only one foot wide and the wood four feet long, we had no axe – it seemed a problem, but it was soon solved.”  Putting their minds to work, several men created a homemade saw out of a sheet iron band and a small file.  And, with some wooden wedges, they were able to saw and split their wood to burn.  [Janowski, p. 37]  Taken ill with smallpox, Alexander was sent to what was considered the camp hospital.  Though he recovered and was treated well by a Dr. Williams, he remained weak and wrote, “…I did know that we were starving in a land of plenty.”  [p.43]  After release from prison on June 23, 1865, Alexander arrived in Columbia, SC to find that “Sherman had destroyed everything along the way.  All the best houses were burnt, and people gone, and those remaining were starving.  Lone chimneys and dead shade trees told the tale.  ...I was restored to family…on the 12th of July, 1865.”  [Janowski, pp.45, 46]
    As of September 1, 1864, a total of 9,480 prisoners were on the rolls.  Including the 115 who had died in August, a total of 126 men had died so far.  Scurvy was now rampant among the prisoners for want of fresh fruits and vegetables.  They were in abundant supply in the outside community, but Col. Hoffman, Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, and Union military officials in Washington were not buying.  Instead, they determined that retaliation was the answer to the South’s mistreatment of Northern prisoners.  With this in mind, Hoffman had already signed orders that rations for prisoners of war would be cut by 20% as of June 1, 1864. 
    “Chronic diarrhea” was most often the term used in diagnosing prisoners who “suffered from dehydration, ulcerative colitis (a fatal infection of the lower intestinal tract), dysentery, and electrolyte imbalance.”  [Horigan, p.75]  With their immune systems weakened by being half-starved on an inappropriate and insufficient diet, and drinking contaminated water, the men began succumbing rapidly to the ravages of disease. 
    As summer progressed, Elmira’s prisoners were no longer allowed to buy additional foodstuffs from the camp sutler.  The men’s living conditions continued to deteriorate as the heat of summer turned into the chill of autumn.  Then, winds blew in the bitter cold of a northern winter unfamiliar to the Southern men as thousands remained in tents without sufficient heat, also lacking warm clothing and blankets.  And still, official approval had not been granted for Foster’s Pond to be drained, nor had additional barracks been constructed to house the prisoners, forcing them to remain in tents through the bitter winter weather.
    From all of this, Camp Commandant Lt. Col. Seth Eastman retired in poor health.  His successor, Col. Benjamin Tracy (born in Apalachin and educated in Owego where he had practiced law), arrived to take charge of Camp Chemung on September 19, 1864.  And it was an overcrowded camp to which Tracy came with its climbing death rate due to the “…lack of sanitation, prevalence of disease, a shortage of proper housing, margined rations, a paucity of clothing, and inadequate hospital facilities… all the result of inaction on the part of those in command in Elmira and (to a much greater extent) Washington.”  [Horigan, p.89]
    With starvation and disease now rampant among the prisoners, substantial quantities of beef designated for the camp to improve rations were unconscionably rejected as unfit by inspectors and, instead, sold to community meat markets.  Those who survived imprisonment, like Walter D. Addison, later recalled:  “No coffee, no tea, no vegetables, but a few beans to make tasteless watery soup consisting of the liquid in which the pork had been boiled.”  James Marion Howard also recalled that “our soup would usually be made of onions, rotten hulls, roots and dirt… but of all the soups, this rotten onion soup has the worst odor…  This, with a piece of bread, was our ration at 3 p.m.  And this was our ration every day.”  Prisoner James B. Stamp remembered that in the winter months the “insufficiency of food increased, and in many instances, prisoners were reduced to absolute suffering.  All the rats that could be captured were eaten, and on one occasion a small dog that had followed a wood hauler into the camp was caught and prepared as food.”  Another prisoner, G. T. Taylor from Alabama stated, “Elmira was nearer Hades than I thought any place could be made by human cruelty.”  [Horigan, pp. 100, 101]  Survivor, R. B. Ewan, recalled 43 years later the “sport of running… [rats] out of their holes.  Our Mart of Trade was in the center of the ground, and at 10 o’clock every day dressed rats on boards and tin plates…were offered for five cents and sometimes more.”  [Horigan, p.140]
    Sooner or later every prisoner contemplates escaping his confines, and those in Elmira were no exception.  However, designated spies infiltrated the Confederates, learning of and reporting on escape plans to the camp officials.  Digging the tunnels was no easy task without proper equipment, not to mention the weakened and malnourished condition of the diggers, but it was accomplished.  Unfortunately for the men involved, 28 tunnels were discovered before escape, but one remained concealed.  Thus, on October 6, 1864, ten men escaped before this tunnel was also discovered.  Several swam across the south side of the Chemung River to Mount Zoar.  From this vantage point, six men (in three paired groups, each group not aware of the others) looked down on their former confines as they watched the frantic search for them take place.  Then they turned their backs on Elmira and simply made their way back home.
    One man, Berry Benson, related years later that he found corn and apples on a nearby farm before walking west to Big Flats and then to Corning from whence he headed south to his home.  Two other men walked to Ithaca, Varna, and then to Auburn where they obtained jobs.  Saving their money, they eventually took a train to New York City and on to Baltimore before walking the rest of the way home.  Nine men made it safely back home, but the tenth was never heard from again.  Their escape is considered “the most spectacular…in the annals of prison camps administered by the Union during the Civil War.”  [Horigan, p.113]
    Others made it out of camp at various times under the watchful eyes of Union guards.  One prisoner stole a Union sergeant’s ankle-length winter overcoat and simply walked away from all the wretchedness through the main gate.  Another prisoner managed to leave with a forged pass. 
    Yet another man, known only as Buttons, [supposedly] hid himself in a coffin with the lid secured only lightly.  When the wagon of coffins reached the cemetery, he popped the lid, jumped off the wagon and ran full speed into the woods.  The driver was speechless and too shocked to stop the escape of someone presumed to be ready for burial!  The identity of “Buttons” has been determined to be Thomas A. Botts through the memoirs of fellow prisoner, John W. Alexander.  [Janowski, pp.26-29, 40, 212]  Supposedly, Buttons escaped to rejoin the Confederate army.  However, in tracking his military records, Janowski notes that, after capture in battle, Botts was moved from Virginia to Elmira on August 17, 1864.  Botts died at Elmira May 14, 1865, two weeks before President Johnson issued orders to release all prisoners.  Janowski considers the story of Buttons’ escape a total fabrication as published in the “Confederate Veteran” magazine in 1926.  [Janowski, p.27]
    October, the month of escapes, held death for 276 more Confederates, men who were not so fortunate.  This was the highest monthly total of any Northern prison, now bringing the total deceased to 857.
    A war of words had been taking place between prison officials, inspectors, the media, and the powers that be in Washington regarding the conditions at the camp and how to rectify them, and whether problems even existed.  In November, Dorothea Dix, superintendant of Women Nurses for the Union, praised the Elmira prison for adequately providing all provisions and necessities to prisoners.  November’s deaths numbered 207, second only to Chicago’s prison death rate that month.
    Denials were made by military personnel on learning of leaks to the media about the horrible conditions within the prison.  In fact, the Elmira Advertiser’s editorials informed its readership that “The Confederates confined at Elmira were treated with all the care and consideration that such persons are entitled to receive by Christian nations in any part of the world.  …[the] rations are of a good quality and abundant in quantity..”  When this was published on December 2, 1864, 994 prisoners had died since July; the total figure at the end of December climbing to 1263 dead.  [Horigan, pp. 102-103]
    So much went wrong at Elmira’s Civil War prison, and this brief column hardly provides adequate space to enumerate all that which transpired.  Documentation also discloses that the surgeon-in-chief, Major Sanger of Maine, used his position in a chilling manner.  Prisoners later recalled his cold and calloused demeanor, and inappropriate treatment of patients with opium, causing the demise of many who were ill, yet no charges were filed against him.  His own writing indicates his attitude:  “I now have charge of 10,000 Rebels a very worthy occupation for a patriot…but I think I have done my duty having relieved 386 of them of all earthly sorrow in one month.”  [Horigan, p.129]
    yet, on the other hand, Maj. Sanger wrote no less than nine reports with complaints about the life-threatening problems facing prisoners in the camp at Elmira.  Action was eventually taken to correct some of the issues, while at the same time Sanger took blame for many failings - some deserved, some not.  At the time of his formal complaints, there were 9,063 prisoners in camp that October.  Of these, 3,873 were in barracks while the balance of 5,190 men were still assigned to 1,038 tents.  Thirty-five barracks were planned to be built; but, with a late start on construction, appropriate housing for the prisoners left too many in tents to endure winter’s bitter cold.  [Horigan, p.132] 
    The construction on better housing facilities finally began in October.  However, with a lack of lumber supplies, construction was delayed.  When barracks were built, it became apparent before winter’s end that hasty construction with green lumber contributed to cracks between the boards, and boards that warped, etc.  To complicate matters further, the existing barracks also began to fall into disrepair. 
    Late November and early December of 1864 saw over 2000 men still in tents.  By Christmas, 900 some men were still living in tents in the frigid winter weather, without adequate heat or sustenance, let alone warm clothing or enough blankets to keep warm. 
    Drainage of Foster’s Pond began after a notice issued October 23, 1864 by the secretary of war, Col. Hoffman.  However, work on the drainage sluice, done by prisoners, was slow in progress due to their own poor health, multiple delays from severe winter weather, quicksand, extremely coarse gravel, and occasional flooding.  The work was completed by January 1, 1865, but 1263 Confederate prisoners had already died, many from drinking contaminated water from the sinks/latrines which leached into the pond and seeped into the shallow wells.
    Heavy rains contributed to flooding of the low land, while bitter ice-cold sleet and snow also took their toll on the men.  With many still in tents, the untold human suffering of these prisoners is appalling to contemplate as they had to deal not only with the frigid elements but malnutrition from lack of a proper diet.  In fact, “the winter of 1864-65 was one of the harshest on record.”  [Janowsky, p. 25]  As prisoner Marcus Toney recalled 40 years later, they only had two blankets per bunk for the bitter winter weather.  Each bunk was “wide enough to sleep two medium-sized men…[but four men slept in each bunk while] two of [the prisoners] slept with their heads toward the east, and two with their heads toward the west… and when ready to change positions, one would call out, ‘All turn to the right’; and the next call would be, ‘All turn to the left.’”  [Horigan, p.133]
    Another sad chapter in Elmira’s prison history is the fact that several businesses and citizens’ relief committees attempted to send clothing and outer coats to prisoners for the winter.  But, due to Secretary of War Stanton’s initial call for retaliation in April 1864, and his initiation of extended and complicated bureaucratic red tape, efforts to aid the prisoners were given up in despair.  With frustrating military regulations established by his commanders, Eastman, as head of the camp, denied clearance to local citizens who also tried to bring aid to the prisoners.  It was clear to many that their efforts were being thwarted by those wishing to exact vengeance against the Southern captives as retaliation for the Confederacy’s harsh treatment of Union prisoners.
    “Deprived of sufficient rations…and of clothing and blankets that remained in warehouses in Washington, the prison camp’s January 1865 death rate reached 285,” for a total of 1548.  [Horigan, p.158]  Even as smallpox compounded the prisoners’ suffering throughout January and February, the city of Elmira held its festive Grand Military Ball in late February.  Six days later, the prisoners’ death toll for February was noted to be 426, an average of 15 per day, bringing the total to 1874.  [Horigan, p.166]  Yet, Fairman’s editorial in his Advertiser noted that “the sick are being taken care of… [and] they have nothing to complain of.”  [Horigan, p.166]   Many of the sick were still actually in tents, ignored by medical staff, though conditions for those in the “hospital” were actually not much better.
    Finally, an order from the War Department on February 4, 1865 directed the camp to prepare 3000 prisoners of war to be transferred south for a prisoner exchange.  Up until that time, this was not a viable option for President Lincoln and Gen. Grant as they felt it would simply recycle more men back into the Confederate armies to prolong the war.  Col. Tracy sent 500 prisoners south on February 13, with 500 more leaving on February 20.  By the end of March, 3042 Confederates had been sent south for exchange.  By April 1st, the camp housed only 5054 prisoners with the total death toll now having reached 2465. 
    Then came news in early April that Gen. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia was losing strength and there might possibly be surrender ahead.  Since Gen. Grant’s siege had isolated Petersburg and Richmond, many believed the war couldn’t last much longer.  Sure enough, further word came north that Robert E. Lee had had no other option but to surrender on April 9, 1865 to Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox.  And 5054 men in Elmira sighed in relief to think that their last days of prison life were in sight.
    At the end of April, the death toll for the month was 267 as the overall total reached 2732.  The balance of men remaining in camp was now down to 4754.  The month of May saw 1,037 more Southerners released while 131 men died in May, for a total of 2863 dead.  On May 31st, only 3610 prisoners remained behind the gates.  The final group of 256 Confederates left Hellmira’s confines on July 11, 1865.  Some, too ill to travel, were transferred to Elmira’s Union Hospital where 16 more died.  The final count of deceased prisoners reached 2950.  Barracks No. 3 was next used to muster out Union soldiers, and in February 1866 the saga of Elmira’s Union camp ended when the camp’s buildings were auctioned off and removed.
    Janowski, however, notes inconsistencies in various sources which report “the death toll anywhere from 2950 to 2998.  I use the 2963 figure…as it is the last grave marker number at Woodlawn National Cemetery.” [Janowski, p.11]
    Earlier in June 1865 following his release, prisoner James Hoffman returned home to Virginia only “to find destruction, waste and poverty… There was no money; the start must be made from the bottom. I went to work with a will.”  [Horigan, p.178]  The South as they had known it was not the same and never would be.  And the legacy of Elmira’s prison was summed up in one word by the prisoners themselves, “Hellmira.”
    Author Michael Horigan presents a long list of well-documented facts that place blame on the federal government and military officials beginning with Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton’s retaliatory efforts backed by the war department’s highest officials.  The list also includes the 20% reduction in rations as of June 1864, the determination to house up to 10,000-plus prisoners at Elmira when the facilities could only reasonably hold 4,000, the lack of any medical staff for the first five weeks, the long delay in rectifying drainage of Foster’s Pond, much needed additional hospital barracks and improved camp facilities, no medical staff to treat the prisoners injured in the Shohola train wreck, Col. Tracy’s beef inspection order which resulted in a substantial reduction of meat available for prisoners, delayed construction of additional barracks with prisoners remaining in tents throughout the winter, deliberate denial of winter clothing to the prisoners, the multi-level clashes between military leadership, and much more.   [Horigan, pp. 191-192]
    PART B:  Andersonville
    As noted above, Elmira is often compared to the death camp of Andersonville in Georgia.  “Yet the most striking contrast between Andersonville and Elmira should be apparent even to the most casual observer,” wrote historian Michael Horigan, author of Elmira: Death Camp of the North. “Elmira, a city with excellent railroad connections, was located in a region where food, medicine, clothing, building materials, and fuel were in abundant supply.  None of this could be said of Andersonville.  Hence, Elmira became a symbol of death for different reasons.” [Horigan, p.193]
    The Dix-Hill Cartel of prisoner exchanges broke down in 1862 when Jefferson Davis’s Confederacy refused to exchange captured black soldiers.  Indicating that they would send the black soldiers back into slavery and kill their white officers, Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton put a halt to prisoner exchanges.  This, in turn, vastly increased the numbers of prisoners on both sides with permanent prisoner-of-war camps established. 
    The search for southern land upon which to build a camp to hold Union prisoners led to a very small village in Georgia – Anderson Station.  It was considered ideal for its proximity to the Central of Georgia Railroad, yet isolated enough to prevent Union troops from raiding the camp to free their countrymen.  Nor would it be easy for those who might successfully escape to find their way back north across the Mason-Dixon line.  The land was also chosen for Sweetwater Creek at the base of the hill.  Thus, a 16-1/2 acre rectangular compound to hold prisoners was built, albeit without barracks to house them. 
    Located a quarter of a mile from Anderson Station, Camp Sumter was 11 miles northwest of Americus  and 60 miles from Macon in Macon County, Georgia.  Renamed Andersonville by guards, it has been considered the absolute worst of Confederate prisons.  After only two weeks of construction, its doors opened on February 27, 1864.  Andersonville became a living hell for the blue-coats (Yankees) who had the misfortune of entering the gates of its double-palisade fence.  Pine trees cut by slaves were planted upright, 5 feet below the surface with the remaining 15-17 feet above ground for the fences.  For good measure, a third “fence” was set up about 15 or so feet in from the inner palisade.  Called the deadline, it was an “open” fence about 3-4 feet high with posts upon which thin board railings were attached.  Touch it or cross under it with any part of your body invited a deadly accurate shot by a sentry. 
    Lumber and nails were in short supply in the Confederacy, and thus not available to build barracks to house prisoners.  But, men were sent from other over-crowded prisons anyway and left to their own devices for making shelters with many sleeping on the open ground with no protection from the weather or insects.
    Many early prisoners came from Belle Isle, an island on the James River near Richmond, Virginia.  They had been in tents while other prisoners removed from Richmond had been housed in warehouses - the lucky ones with a roof over their heads.  Sent by rail, the men were squeezed into railroad boxcars or open cars without much room to move about.  When they arrived at Andersonville, they spread out in search of an area they could call “home” – not an easy task as the number of prisoners increased.  Friends and men from the same units tended to stay together to set up their home on the open ground.
    As of April 1, 1864, there were 7160 prisoners which, by May 8, had increased by 5,787 men.  Also, by May 8, 728 had died, 13 had escaped with 7 recaptured for a total occupancy of 12,213 on a little less than 17 acres.  [Burnett, p. 5]   Eventually, the camp was enlarged to 27 acres, still an insufficient amount of land to house the volume of prisoners confined between its walls.
    With no buildings or protective shelters on the premises, the men built “shebangs” (from the Irish word shebeen “which refers to an illegal place to serve alcohol”).  [Gourley, p. 48]  Huts or lean-tos were made from whatever logs, branches, or brush had been left inside the compound when the palisade walls were built.  Those who had blankets used them along with their greatcoats and anything else available to make a shelter from the southern sun and its heat.  Some used their ingenuity to take make bricks out of the clay.  Others dug small shelters, i.e. burrows, into the slope of the upper hill. 
    And everywhere they went fleas, lice, ticks, flies and mosquitoes pestered their bodies.  In fact, prisoner Bjorn Alakson said, “Killing lice became a game and would help pass the tedious time.” [Burnett, p. 16]  At least once a day, sometimes more often, the men worked at debugging themselves.  If they didn’t, the innumerable pests attacked every inch of their hosts, eating into their weakened bodies, causing illness and death.  [Glennan, p. 46]
    As the unrelenting sun beat down on them, with vermin a constant pest, and the lack of proper nourishing rations and the drinking of contaminated water all led to the spread of disease, particularly scurvy, dysentery, diarrhea, smallpox, yellow fever, infections and gangrene with resultant high death rates.  The sinks/latrines were set parallel to the creek with the inevitable runoff rapidly contaminating the creek, all too quickly creating an unhealthy lagoon, not to mention all-encompassing stench.  One can only imagine the filth and deplorable conditions the men were forced to live in.
    As Irishman Ed Glennan, author of “Surviving Andersonville,” wrote (original spelling retained), “Our treatment was well Known in the North but Thousands & thousands did not believe it Possibly in a Christian Country that men, no matter how Brutal, Could or would treat their Fellow man as we were treated…& next My Friends I Blamed our own Government for leaving us there.  They well Knew at Washington what we were Suffering, what we were Enduring & the Mortality amongst us.  Yes, I Blamed them.  We had left Home & the comforts of Home Life to take our Chances of war, to Bare our Breasts between the Bulletts of Rebels & the Bosom of the nation willing to take our changes of Death on the Battle Feild or Come Back maimed for Life & as we Had stepped Forward to save our Country in Her Hour of Need & Danger so also did we Expect our Country to Extend Her Hand to us in our Hour of need.  Danger, no, we thought not of Danger, give us our Liberty, give us our Freedom from the Rebell Hell Horde & Place us in the Face of Danger & we ask no Hand but the Hand of God & our Hands with Gallant Comrades to Back & we will Face Danger & take the Consequences.  Like men in Danger then we ask no Help but we are in need, yes, Deathly need, Daily, Hourly & where is the strong Hand of our Government in Her need.”  [Glennan, p. 78]  Not knowing that the prisoner exchanges had been stopped, nor why, the men maintained an eager, albeit futile, hope of being exchanged.  [Glennan, p.80]
    Food and containers to hold the limited rations the men received were also in short supply, or often non-existent.  Rations, given out once a day, included rough-ground cornmeal with the cobs and husks ground in (damaging to the human digestive system if they were not picked out), beans or peas, and occasionally 1-2 oz. of meat which often was rancid and covered in ashes.  It was up to the men to find water.  Some prisoners were able to dig small wells up on the hill for fresh, albeit muddy, water compared to the stinking and filthy creek water.  Rations were put into men’s hats or shirt sleeves if they had no containers, which most did not.  How it was fixed to be eaten was up to each prisoner.  Sometimes, a little water, albeit contaminated, was added to create a cornmeal mush to fry – that is, if one could scrabble up a bit of wood to burn and had a container in which to cook.  Some prisoners rented out their cooking utensils to those in need.  Even these limited rations were reduced as the population increased.  At times, prisoners did not report a deceased man from their unit for as long as possible in order to obtain his rations to split amongst the balance of the group.  
    Trading of rations for wood, or other items for food, became a necessity.  Many fell back on trades in which they had been employed prior to their military service, or learned new skills to help pass the time.  Those who could carve objects from wood scraps had something to sell or barter for food.  They could send and receive mail, or receive packages from the outside world, but it was all subject to inspection and/or confiscation by guards. 
    New prisoners who arrived were called “fresh fish.”  They entered with a stunned look as they faced a sea of ghost-like men staring back at them.  The starving inmates were gaunt, skeletal thin and sickly, with shabby rags for clothing, though many were reduced to wearing very little if anything.  Finding a place to set up your own “home” was not easy.  Neighborhoods meandered along winding “streets” where housing and “businesses” were established.  If you “owned” a site with a well you had dug, you could sell the water.  Obviously, higher ground was more valuable than the low-lying areas near the contaminated bog and creek.  Those prisoners who were able to “make the best of it” with a resilient attitude survived fared better than those who succumbed to depression and resignation over their deplorable surroundings.
    Stealing by gang members of the Raiders was rampant until one new prisoner was robbed and severely beaten.   As he cried out while being viciously attacked for his watch, other men came to his aid, an effort which saved his life.  A seasoned soldier who had spent two years on the battlefield, he was unafraid of retaliation as he appealed to the guards.  The commander, Maj. Henry Wirz, was furious at the men who had attacked their own, a violation of unspoken prison camp mores, and would not send in rations until the situation was cleared up. 
    Prison justice was carried out by the Regulators, a gang which tried to protect the weaker and helpless.  They sought out the Raiders and engaged them in an intense physical fight, all men being in an already weakened physical state from poor health.  As the Regulators captured each Raider member, they were brought to the guards to be held while the remaining prisoners cheered.  Put on trial, over 100 Raiders were found guilty by a jury of peers with the six leaders sentenced to be hung.  The others had to run the gauntlet when they were put back into the “pen” - beatings by their fellow prisoners as they tried to run through the tight double line.  Many Raiders were injured from running the gauntlet, and several died from their wounds.  But, the looting and violence within the camp promptly ceased.
    Plans for escape were always on the prisoners’ minds, but with the two palisade fences set so deep, tunneling was not always the best option.  Even when prisoners did escape, the guards sent dogs into the forest after them where they typically treed the prisoners, or tore into those who were not so fortunate as to be capable of climbing trees.  Escape simply wasn’t worth the effort.
    During a fierce storm in August 1864, lightning struck a spot on the hill and caused a spring to bubble up.  Men were able to drink from what they felt was a heaven-sent fresh flow of water.  Unfortunately, the heavy rains of that storm also washed much of the filth on the slopes down into the bog and creek, making the contamination there even worse.  In 1902 a former prisoner, James Madison Page, returned to Camp Sumter to pay tribute to his former fellow prisoners.  With a young boy as his guide, he was taken to Providence Springs, as the men had named it in 1864, and saw that it was still flowing nearly 40 years later.  [Gourley, p.168-169] 
    By early June 1864, the number of prisoners had reached 20,000, double the capacity the camp was originally intended to hold.  Maj. Wirz expanded the prison with a 10-acre addition which opened July 1st, though the prison continued to be severely overcrowded as the number of prisoners reached a nadir of 33,114 that August. 
    In September 1864, several thousand men were taken from the prison to other locations in preliminary steps between the United States and the Confederacy for a prisoner exchange.  Any man able to walk was transferred out, but about 5000 men who were too ill remained behind.  More continued to be added to Andersonville, remaining through the end of the Civil War in April 1865.  Unfortunately, the elements, lack of sanitation, and insufficient nourishing rations continued to wreak havoc on the remaining prisoners.  [American Civil War: Andersonville Prison, by Kennedy Hickman at
    As noted above, my extended relative, Chauncey McNeill, arrived soon after his capture in November 1864 and died March 5, 1865 – just a month before the war’s end, one more sad statistic of war.
    Ultimately, a total of 45,615 men had been confined at Andersonville.  August 23, 1864 had the highest recorded number of deaths in one day at 127 men.  With a total of 12,913 having died as prisoners, about 29%, this figure represents about 40% of all Union POW deaths.  [Glennan, p.179]
    Commandant of Camp Sumter, Maj. Henry Wirz, was put on trial by the United States government after the war ended.  With his attorneys not allowed to present much in the way of a defense to prove that he was essentially following orders of his military superiors, he was found guilty and sentenced to death by hanging.  Many of his orders had come down from above by those who were not brought to justice, though injustices were definitely meted out by his own decisions.  To his credit, Wirz had sent letters requesting aid, additional supplies and rations for the prisoners, to no avail. 
    What many at the time also failed to understand, and did not want to hear, was that the South was in dire straits during Andersonville’s existence.  With plantations, cropland and railroad lines destroyed by the Union armies, what crops did get harvested were often unable to be shipped out to be processed for consumption.  The result was that many crops rotted in the fields or in storehouses.  The war had made its own path of destruction, thus creating a lack of grains and food available to feed either the Confederate armies or their Northern prisoners.  Without regular exchanges, the prisoner population continued to grow.  Whereas the starvation and disease rampant in the Elmira prison has been shown to be the result of military orders from the Secretary of War Edwin Stanton on down, the dire situation at Andersonville was caused more by the effects of war on the land - a grim situation any way you look at it. 
    To their credit, those who survived the war and any of the numerous prison camps went on to rejoin their families, to regain much of their health, and to lead productive lives within their respective communities.  Some of the men, however, never fully recovered their health and died from disease or afflictions suffered from wounds or imprisonment as evidenced by my extended relative, DeWitt C. McNeill, who died about three years after the war ended from disease contracted in war.  Even Ed Glennan who wrote “Surviving Andersonville,” continued to suffer the effects of ill health due to his knee injury from a minie` ball on the battlefield and scurvy from imprisonment for the rest of his life.
    We are forever indebted to the brave men and women who have fought in all of our nation’s wars, and to those who have paid the ultimate sacrifice with their lives.  May we ever know that, though “war is hell” as Gen. Sherman once said, there are freedoms we have enjoyed in our United States of America which are unknown to those in many other nations around the world.  To all of our servicemen and women, we give a heartfelt “Thank you!” 
    BOOK SOURCES (which I read):
    *April 1865: The Month That Saved America, Jay Winik; New York:  HarperCollins, 2006.
    *Elmira:  Death Camp of the North, by Michael Horigan, Stackpole Books, Mechanicsburg, PA, 2002.
    *In Their Honor:  Soldiers of the Confederacy, The Elmira Prison Camp by Diane Janowski, New York History Review Press, 2009.
    *Surviving Andersonville:  One Prisoner’s Recollections of the Civil War’s Most Notorious Camp, by Ed Glennan, edited by David A. Ranzan, McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, Jefferson, NC, 2013.
    *The Horrors of Andersonville: Life and Death inside a Civil War Prison, Catherine Gourley, Twenty-First Century Books (division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.), Minneapolis, MN, 2010.
    *The Prison Camp at Andersonville, National Park Civil War Series, Text by William G. Burnett, pub. by Eastern National, 1995.
  3. Linda Roorda
    Whether or not we had ancestors or extended relatives who served in the American Civil War, it’s only fitting that we commemorate the 159th anniversary of its conclusion this past April.  This was the war that gave freedom to all slaves, despite that issue not being the war’s original intent. 
    It all began when seven states from the south seceded from the bonds of the United States of America upon Abraham Lincoln’s election as president in November 1860.  By February 1861, the Confederate States of America had formed, whereupon the United States government declared its existence was illegal.  Four more states seceded from the Union with the April 12, 1861 firing by Confederates on Fort Sumter in Charleston, South Carolina, a Union-held fort.  Only later did the slavery issue become the leading bone of contention between the north and south. 
    Not until September 22, 1862 did President Lincoln declare that as of January 1, 1863 “all slaves in states in rebellion against the Union ‘shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free.’”  Lincoln was also astute enough to know this would be "the central act of my administration, and the greatest event of the 19th century."
    And so, one hundred and fifty-nine years ago, men on both sides of our nation’s civil war lay down their arms after four long years.  But, few knew when dawn broke on Palm Sunday, April 9, 1865, that it was the beginning of the end.  General Robert E. Lee of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia was backed into a corner on the battlefield with nothing left to do but accept the offer of surrender to General Ulysses S. Grant of the Union (i.e. Northern) Army. 
    Grant had pursued Lee’s army relentlessly.  In fact, Grant’s troops were entrenched around Petersburg and Richmond, Virginia.  Grant thus kept Lee under a loose siege in an attempt to sever the supply lines which enabled the Confederate armies to remain viable.  As the Union Army drew Lee’s forces into battle on April 1, 1865 and cut their supply lines, Lee had no choice but to abandon ground he had held for virtually ten months.  In retreat, he expected to meet up with other Confederate units in order to regroup as designated supply trains arrived with fresh provisions.  Unfortunately, the Union cavalry found and attacked remnants of Lee’s army enroute, forcing several thousand Confederates to surrender.  Supplies were also captured by the Northern Army, preventing the Southern troops from getting their designated supplies in order to continue fighting.
    On April 7, and after several small skirmishes, Grant sent a message to Lee suggesting that he surrender.  Though Lee refused, he did ask Grant to spell out the terms being offered, hoping to buy sufficient time to meet up with additional Southern troops.  The next day, however, three Confederate supply trains were captured and burned at Appomattox Station by Brevet Maj. Gen. George Armstrong Custer.  This left two more Southern armies which were arriving to support Lee without their desperately-needed supplies of food and more.  Knowing there was just one more supply train available a little farther west at Lynchburg, Lee decided to fight on and push his army through the Northern Army’s lines of defense. 
    On Sunday morning, April 9, the Southern Army forced back a section of the Northern Army’s line of defense.  As they pushed forward, however, the next line of the Union Army slowed the Confederates down.  Desperately continuing their charge forward, they finally broke through the Union defense… only to find that, as their cavalry reached the summit of a hill, the Union Army lay spread out before them fully prepared to repel the Southern Army. 
    Maj. Gen. John B. Gordon sent a message to Gen. Lee stating, “…I have fought my corps to a frazzle, and I fear I can do nothing unless I am heavily supported by Longstreet’s corps.”  Knowing that Lt. Gen. James Longstreet was fully engaged by the Northern Army and unable to come to Gordon’s aid, Lee knew he had no other choice but to surrender.  “Then there is nothing left for me to do but to go and see General Grant and I would rather die a thousand deaths,” Lee replied to Gordon.  [The Appomattox Campaign: March 29-April 9, 1865, by Joe Williams, National Park Service.  Per Wikipedia]
    General Robert E. Lee went to meet Grant that Palm Sunday, April 9, dressed impeccably in full uniform.  General Ulysses S. Grant (having allowed Lee to select their meeting site) arrived as is from the battlefield in an unkempt uniform spattered by mud with his pants tucked into well-worn muddy boots.  Lee’s men had been hounded as they tried to gain the upper hand over his fellow graduate of West Point.  Even supply trains seemed to contrive against him as they were prevented from meeting his Southern troops at designated stops.  The great Confederate effort had begun to unravel… rapidly.  Though his soldiers were bone weary, starving hungry, emaciated, emotionally and physically drained, they were ready to follow their beloved commander wherever he led them.  And this was where Lee brought them… to Appomattox Court House, Virginia, to the country home of Wilmer and Virginia McLean… to surrender.
    The meeting between Grant and Lee was initially emotional as they discussed their only other meeting about 20 years earlier in the Mexican-American War.  Sitting down to business, the terms of surrender given by Grant were more generous than expected.  See Robert E. Lee's Surrender at Appomattox from the pages of Harper's Weekly.
    Written documentation was provided by Grant’s adjutant, Ely Parker, a Native American of the Seneca tribe.  When Lee learned of Parker’s heritage, he commented, “It is good to have one real American here.”  Parker replied simply, “Sir, we are all Americans.”  Grant allowed that each man could keep his own horse or mule, so vital for the spring field work ahead.  The officers could keep their small sidearms, but all men were to leave their larger shotguns, rifles, artillery field pieces, and public property.  They were to refrain from taking up arms in the future against the United States of America, and to respectfully embrace all laws within the state they lived.  After the formalities were concluded inside the house, they stepped quietly outside.  As Grant’s men began cheering in a celebratory manner, he ordered them to stop immediately.  “The Confederates are now our countrymen, and we [do] not want to exult over their downfall.”  Respect was paramount in Grant’s eyes.  He even provided food rations to Lee’s starving army.  [quotes above from April 1865: The Month That Saved America, Jay Winik; New York:  HarperCollins, 2006, p.191.]
    On April 12, 1865, Gen. Robert E. Lee’s soldiers lined up to stack their guns under the Union Army’s watchful eye.  Brig. Gen. Joshua L. Chamberlain, the Union officer chosen to lead the formal ceremony of surrender, wrote a moving tribute:  “The momentous meaning of this occasion impressed me deeply.  I resolved to mark it by some token of recognition, which could be no other than a salute of arms…  Before us in proud humiliation stood the embodiment of manhood:  men whom neither toils nor sufferings, nor the fact of death, nor disaster, nor hopelessness could bend from their resolve; standing before us now, thin, worn, and famished, but erect, and with eyes looking level into ours, waking memories that bound us together as no other bond – was not such manhood to be welcomed back into a Union so tested and assured?  …when the head of each division column comes opposite our group, our bugle sounds the signal and instantly our whole line from right to left, regiment by regiment in succession, gives the soldier’s salutation, from the ‘order arms’ to the old ‘carry’, the marching salute... honor answering honor.  On our part not a sound of trumpet more, nor roll of drum; not a cheer, nor word nor whisper of vain-glorying, nor motion of man standing again at the order, but an awed stillness rather, and breath-holding, as if it were the passing of the dead!”  [Passing of the Armies, Joshua Chamberlain, pp. 260-261; per Wikipedia]
    When the roughly 28,000 soldiers of Gen. Lee’s former Confederate Army of Northern Virginia stacked their arms, they must have done so with tremendous mixed emotions.  It’s not easy to lose.  It’s not easy to have fought so hard and so long for what you believed in with all your heart only to have it come to this... surrender.  But, Grant allowed them to retain their dignity.  As they walked past their former enemies, each man was saluted with respect.  With this solemn ceremony, both sides must have felt a great sense of relief that the long and bitter war was finally over. 
    The Surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia, April 12, 1865.  Painting by Ken Riley.  Courtesy West Point Museum, U. S. Military Academy, West Point, New York.
    The respect that Gen. Grant and his men paid to the Southern soldiers was intended to be taken back home to their countrymen as each man turned and walked away... back to the family each had left behind so long ago… back to a family that might no longer be intact… back to a home or farm left tattered and ruined by the men they were surrendering to. 
    It would be a long road home for men on both sides.  They faced physical and emotional difficulties as they recovered.  But, the road for men traveling south may have been fraught with a depth of anxiety the northerners likely never knew.  What remained of the family and home left behind?  Too often, very little.  It would be a long road ahead to rebuild the devastation of a countryside laid waste by war… crops to plant, homes and farms to rebuild, and cities and business to re-establish.  It would take a lot of determination to move forward, but move forward our nation would. 
    Yet, thousands of men and boys did not have the opportunity to go home.  Many, if not all, of those walking home had family members and/or friends who had given the ultimate sacrifice.
    By April 1865, the nation had been at war for four long weary years.  Additional Confederate armies surrendered over the ensuing days and weeks.  Everyone was tired.  The nation at large was utterly drained.  The war had exacted its final toll from about 630,000 men while over one million were formally listed as casualties of war, i.e. wounded - some with loss of limbs, some in emotional turmoil, some carrying disease that began on the battlefield or in prison.  The after-effects lasted far beyond the cessation of actual physical combat.  And then, just as the end of war was beginning to register in their weary minds, the nation’s much beloved and equally hated president, Abraham Lincoln, was assassinated.  What next?  What was this world coming to?  How would the nation continue to move forward?
    Among my ancestors and extended relatives who fought in the Civil War are two McNeill half-brothers, each of whom spent time in Confederate prisons.  They were sons of Robert McNeill who served in the War of 1812, removing to Michigan with his family; Robert is an older brother of my ancestor, Jesse.
    1)      Chauncey McNeill, b. about 1819, Carlisle, Schoharie Co., NY, son of Robert and 1st wife Matilda (Crego) McNeill.  “Chancy” enlisted in 8th Michigan Cavalry Sep 2, 1864, went missing in action at Henryville, Tennessee Nov 23, 1864.  Imprisoned at Camp Sumter/Andersonville, admitted to hospital Feb 21, 1865, died March 5, 1865 of “Cronick Diarheah and exposure in said Rebel Prison,” buried grave No. 12733 at Andersonville, Georgia, leaving a widow and two young children.  [Above per NARA military service records purchased by Roorda.]
    “12733, McNiell, C, 8 cav, Co M, died March 5, '65, diarrhea c.”
    A List of the Union Soldiers Buried at Andersonville, by Dorence Atwater.  As a prisoner he kept a daily log of all Union soldiers who died in the prison for the commander, given to the U.S. government after the Civil War.  [Gourley, pp.8, 172]
    2)      DeWitt C. McNeill, b. about Dec 18, 1845, Savannah, Wayne Co., NY, son of Robert and 2nd wife Catharine (Vosburgh, Coe) McNeill.  DeWitt enlisted Sep 26, 1862 at Copake, NY, promoted from private to corporal to sergeant Co. E, 159th N. Y. Infantry.  Captured Sep 19, 1864, Winchester, Virginia, released March 2, 1865 at Goldsborough, North Carolina, returned to camp May 4th, mustered out August 4, 1865 at Savannah, Georgia.  He died March 16, 1868 at age 22 of illness from time spent in prison, leaving a young widow.
    Closer to my direct lineage, John and Henry Leonardson went off to war from Montgomery County, New York.  They were brothers of Mary Eliza Leonardson (b. ca. 1832) who married William Ottman (my great-great-grandparents) of Carlisle, Schoharie County, NY.  One brother came home after several years of war, while the younger sibling was killed only six months into his enlistment.  
    3)      John D. Leonardson, b. Jan 10, 1830 in Montgomery Co., NY, son of Arent/Aaron and Lana (Gross) Leendertse/Leonardson.  John enlisted Dec 14, 1861 at Lyons, NY as a musician into F Co., NY 98th Infantry, re-enlisted Jan 4, 1864, serving in siege against Petersburg and Richmond VA, mustered out Aug 31, 1865 at Richmond, VA.  He died August 10, 1899, Sharon, Schoharie Co., NY. 
    4)      Henry Leonardson, b. about 1840, Montgomery Co., NY, son of Arent/Aaron and Lana (Gross) Leendertse/Leonardson.  Henry enlisted as private Jan 4, 1864 into unassigned NY 16th Heavy Artillery, transferred May 10, 1864 to D Co. NY 6th Heavy Artillery.  Killed Jun 22, 1864 at Petersburg, VA.
    NEXT: Read Civil War, April 1865, Elmira Prison vs. Andersonville
  4. Linda Roorda
    “You never think of your parents as much more than parents. It isn’t until you are older yourself that you begin to realize they had their hopes, dreams, ambitions, and secret thoughts. You sort of take them for granted and sometimes you are startled to know they were in love a time or two…. You never stop to think about what they were like until it is too late…” (Louis L’Amour in “Tucker”)  Oh how true!!
    The tomboy that I was while growing up in my teens, working and learning beside my Dad, prepared me for later becoming a farmer’s wife.  After all, the love of farming is in the blood of both my parents! I was not fond of housework, much preferring to be outside or in the barn. Yet we women fill so many different roles.  Not all of us are wives and mothers.  Some of us remain single.  Some of us are meant to pursue life-time careers.  Some of us work to support our family, when we would prefer to be at home raising our children. Often, our likes and dislikes, and even careers, change throughout our lifetime. 
    Typically, we women are great multi-taskers, but I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad! We come from different walks in life, and we’re very different from each other in feelings, perspectives, and opinions. I’ve had several “big sisters” or “surrogate mothers” in my lifetime who added a special dimension to my maturing and learning - my Dad’s mother, Grammy, with whom I wrote letters every other week for decades from my teens on, who helped raise me as an infant and toddler, and was there with an ear and advice as I raised my own children; my cousin Howard’s wife, Carol, like a big sister to me and whose four children my sister and I babysat during their weekend auctions in our teens, and with whom I continue to keep in touch; and his brother Robert’s wife, Virginia, briefly my hunting partner in my teens, also taught me how to cook certain meals when I lived with their family while working in Ithaca several months before my marriage to Ed, learning to make delicious homemade spaghetti sauce and a down-home scrumptious simple goulash, both a favorite in my own family’s supper menu. 
    But I remember my Mom for many things… as I grew up, she was a traditional housewife, taking care of the home and growing a large garden.  She continued her mother’s example by canning and freezing the produce every summer except the years we lived in Clifton, NJ.  When we butchered chickens, Dad put them on the chopping block, we two sisters were the “dunk-and-pluck” crew, while Mom knew how to properly dress them for the freezer, showing us one hen’s set of graduated eggs sans shells from large to very small!  She was quiet and reserved, did not share much, if anything, about herself or her family as I grew up, but she had a strong faith in God.  Her mother died when I was 9 so I have limited memories of her, though eventually my mother shared stories of growing up and of her mother’s busy life raising 12 children, helping on their large chicken and dairy farm. My mom loved the country/farm life, as I do. And she knew how to deliciously cook up the squirrel I shot, or all game and fish my Dad brought home!
    A few things she shared included making true homemade ice cream (no pre-made mix) as we kids clamored for a turn at hand cranking, bottling homemade root beer, and heating up the best hot cocoa with real cocoa powder, sugar and milk on the stove – all things from her childhood.  She also made a Dutch barley soup with buttermilk and brown sugar that I loved, as well as the most delicious cream puffs in the world using our duck eggs.  She could sew, but it was not her favorite.  She taught me to iron clothes and Dad’s handkerchiefs before permanent press fabrics hit the market.  I loved her homemade bread and made some a few times after I was married, but it was not my favorite venture.  As a kid, I savored her delicious toasted-cheese sandwiches with her homemade dill pickle slices tucked between slices of her homemade bread – long before Vlasic ever thought of selling bottled dill pickle slices for that very purpose!  
    My sister and I did a lot of the bean and pea picking, snapping and shelling.  Though we tossed some of those veggies as youngsters when we were tired of our chore, freshly picked and cooked peas remain my favorite.  I loved visiting the farm my Mom grew up on, and later in life enjoyed hearing stories of her younger days.  She shared some of her wisdom, but typical of teens, I wasn’t always listening or accepting.  I did not hear much of her childhood until I began researching and documenting her family’s genealogy decades after I got married. And treasure the time I drove her around her hometown of Carlisle, NY, sharing and pointing out places connected to her life, as I wrote down her childhood stories.
    My only desire had been to be a stay-at-home mother like my Mom, but circumstances beyond our control put me back into the workforce when my children were very young.  Each of my secretarial jobs (beginning part time as a high school senior in an Owego law office), built the foundation and skills for the next job, preparing me for my final medical transcription career before retiring and changing direction once more - subbing for teachers and their TAs, jobs I love, “being there” for “my” students.  But whether it’s being a mother or having a career, that’s not where all our satisfaction is found.  ewing many clothes for myself, husband and children, and canning and freezing a year’s worth of garden produce and fruit while raising my little ones were all reminiscent of the “good ol’ days.”
    It does our heart good to “be there” for someone else, whether to provide emotional support, bring a meal to a shut-in, or lend aid in other ways to someone in need… sometimes even if only to give an ear and a shoulder for their hurts.  And that doesn’t begin to describe the love felt by the recipients of our gifts of love and time.  But doing good for others is not where we derive all our satisfaction either.
    For several years, a popular women’s Bible study has been the “Proverbs 31 Woman.”  I like this passage of Scripture in Proverbs 31:10-31 (NIV), written by Israel’s King Solomon who had achieved fame as the wisest man in the world.  It speaks about a wife of noble character, and what she does to bring blessing to her husband and children, her family.  She works to care and provide for the needs of her household.  She buys and sells property and goods for a profit.  She respects her husband and brings him good in all she does, whether at home, among her friends, or in the city at large.  She speaks with a wise heart.  She does not sit around in idleness; instead, she demonstrates strength and dignity in all situations.  For "a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised." (Proverbs 31:30b)
    As I ponder this passage, I feel like it shows that I clearly don’t measure up.  For I know all too well my own failings.  Yet, there’s no reason why I cannot pursue change within.  So, I seek that quiet time to study, meditate, pray, and listen to what the Lord has to say within my heart.  It’s the Lord’s approval I long for… to guide my steps, to change my course, to cover me with forgiveness, peace and contentment, and to find satisfaction in doing what He expects of me even when it’s not the easiest path, nor the one I would choose.
    May you be blessed - whether or not you are called Mom - for all the love you share, and for all the time and effort you put into being there for those around you… Happy Mother’s Day!
     
    I Am A Woman
    Linda A. Roorda
    ~
    I am a woman.  I am a mother.
    I’m a little girl, deep in my heart.
    I am emotions, raw and revealing.
    I am deep strength when life overwhelms.
    ~
    I’ve carried love within my heart
    For family dear, and friends held close,
    For husband wise, light of my world
    And children young, growing their dreams.
    ~
    I see the needs to be fulfilled.
    I reach to you, a life to touch.
    I shed a tear, and hold your hand
    To ease your pain, and bring a smile.
    ~
    In quiet time, I seek Your will, Lord.
    A time to renew, to calm my fears,
    To savor sweet dreams, my hopes and plans
    As You care for me, and meet all my needs.
    ~
    I fail at times to walk the path
    Yet You, oh Lord, are at my side.
    You pick me up each time I fall
    To gently remind, Your child I am.
    ~
    I’ve harbored pain of losses that wound.
    I’ve weathered storms, battered and scarred.
    But my weary soul with peace You fill,
    That I may praise and bless Your name.
    ~
    I hear Your voice and will in Your Word,
    For wisdom I’ve gained upon this road
    Will lead me on to comfort and love
    Others in need with You at my side.
    ~~
  5. Linda Roorda
    I’ve had Tourette’s since age 10-11, starting within a year after my family moved from farms in upstate New York to city life in Clifton, New Jersey… the city where I was born and my dad grew up.  It was an extremely emotional, disruptive time in my life to leave behind my close friends and the country life I loved and preferred.
    I’ve shared my story before, but it bears repeating because I am not alone and I wish to encourage others. And actually, I have been contacted privately by a few with Tourette's, sharing their story.  Tourette Syndrome Awareness Month is from May 15 to June 15, with the annual Tourette Syndrome Awareness Day on June 7, 2023.  Tourette Syndrome was named for a French neurologist, Dr. Georges Gilles de la Tourette.  He was the first to describe children and adults with specific tic movements in 1884, publishing his study about this syndrome in 1885.
    I’d always believed it was the stress from moving to city life which precipitated my tics. I now understand there is often a genetic component, though I have no idea who may have had it in any older generation.  Most of my life I’ve been embarrassed and ashamed to admit I had Tourette’s.  Nor did my parents know what to do about it.  I was initially mocked, and quickly learned to hide or camouflage the tics with movements that wouldn’t be as readily obvious.  I am constantly “on alert”.  Though I can generally successfully “hide” the tics (or so I think), they have to have an out and are worse when I’m away from the public eye or under stress.
    I’ve called the tics “my habit”, but never had a diagnosis until reading a letter in a Dear Abby column in my early 20s.  Self-diagnosing from the apt description in that letter and response by the columnist, I felt such a relief to know my affliction had a name!  Still, I only shared this information with my husband and closest family. Though embarrassed and ashamed to see myself with tic movements in a family video, I have not let Tourette’s control my life or employment.  I was also afraid of passing it on to my children, but I wanted and was blessed with a family.  I’m aware of the tics, and am able to control them… but only somewhat.  And I’m also thankful they are considered “simple” tics. 
    Just as I’ve been ashamed of my movements, so my late husband was ashamed of being legally blind growing up.  (He read and approved this when I initially wrote it.)  He couldn’t see the school blackboard with his limited vision, even sitting in the front row, and would not ask for the help he needed.  Kids don’t want to be different from their peers.  When they have a noticeable difference, they are too often teased or mocked like my husband was, and become ashamed of who they are… sometimes with devastating effects, like suicide.  It’s up to us as adults, and even children, to be aware of the issues that others around us are dealing with.  If we provide support, acceptance, and encouragement, we will see ourselves for who we truly are - uniquely created in the image of God, and very loved.
    While subbing one day, I was surprised by a young student who kindly asked, “Do you have Tourette’s?”  Seeing no point in denying the obvious to those sweet innocent eyes, I replied, “Yes, I do.  But how do you know about Tourette’s?”  She’d watched a show.  As kids do, they talked amongst themselves and others began asking me questions.  This led to their teacher setting aside time so I could share what I knew about living with Tourette’s.  I answered their many questions as several added they knew someone with Tourette’s, too!  It was an informative session, endearing these students to me for their kindness and understanding.  They simply accepted me for who I am, just as I accept each of them.
    Tourette Syndrome is one type of tic disorder, meeting certain medical criteria of involuntary, repetitive movements and vocalizations, lasting for specific lengths of time.  My “simple” tics include, but are not limited to, sudden brief, repetitive movements of certain muscle groups like hard eye blinking or scrunching (the first symptom for most, including myself), facial, mouth, and head movements, shoulder shrugging, arm, hand and finger movements, head and shoulder jerking, leg and foot movements, throat clearing, repeating words or phrases verbally (or in my mind), and more.  I have an arthritic bony prominence of my collarbone from decades-long shoulder shrugs, and thoracic spine pain/arthritis from prior movements.  Tics wax and wane, change muscle groups at whim, and become worse under stress.
    Though the tics have never gone away, they often subside, albeit briefly, when I’m fully absorbed in hobbies like singing, sleeping or painting.  Totally absorbed while playing intently with my toddler son years ago, my step-mother commented that my tics had totally stopped during that brief window of time.  That was the first time I realized there really were times when “my habit” stopped!
    Tourette Syndrome is a neurodevelopmental disorder with typical onset in childhood or adolescence.  Chemical imbalances in the brain, environmental factors, or genetics are considered causative factors.  There is no cure, but there are some treatment options.  About 35 years ago, I was officially diagnosed by a neurologist and prescribed medication.  Unfortunately, taking just half a pill of the smallest dose, the dopey side effect for me was much worse than dealing with the tics, so I declined further medication.
    I do not have “complex” tics which include distinct patterns with multiple muscles and movements, hopping and twirling, head banging, and more.  Vocal tics can include sniffing, throat clearing, shouting, saying words or phrases, and repeating what was heard.  Though swearing and unacceptable language are found in a small percentage of Tourette cases, the media often describes coprolalia as a more common symptom.  My heart goes out to those with this more severe and disruptive range of tics, some of whom may qualify for disability benefits.  Many with Tourette’s also have other diagnoses including obsessive-compulsive disorder, hyperactivity (possibly me), attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder, and learning disabilities. 
    Guidepost magazine once featured contemporary Christian music singer, Jamie Grace, sharing her diagnosis of Tourette’s.  Reading the article about her, I burst into tears just to know that someone else has it but has not let it stop her from living a full life either.  I always felt so alone, never knowing anyone else with Tourette’s until I opened up about it a few years ago here on Facebook.
    Looking at this from God’s perspective, I find it comforting to know He sees me for who I am, Tourette’s and all.  He has a greater purpose for our lives as we bring honor and glory to Him in all that we do, even with our limitations.  Often, as we go through the trials of life, that’s when we learn how to trust and rely on the Lord the best.  In overcoming our own problems, God uses us and our difficult circumstances to reach others who may be dealing with similar issues, bringing love and comfort to them in a way that is as unique as we are each gifted individually.
    Sharing my brief story on the Tourette Association’s website to encourage others, you can check it out here, and read about the road others have traveled and learn more information at the Tourette Syndrome website tourette.org.
  6. Linda Roorda
    Blessings are simple gifts given with joy and appreciation to another. Like this week, I was blessed by one of “my” students.  Opening the door to welcome each one as they arrive, I heard how much a young lady appreciates my smiles and personal greetings every day, as she reached out to give me a big hug.  That touched my heart deeply as I thanked her with tears in my own eyes.
    Blessings are gifts given with no expectation of payback.  They arrive unexpectedly from many sources… from our dear family and friends, from strangers we pass on our daily path, from a special moment in time, and all from our God above.  Blessings convey love from the sender.  They invoke inspiration as we face nature’s finest moments of grandeur.  Given by our Creator God, blessings take our breath away as we pause in awe.
    Blessings come in the simple form of a thankful heart when we’ve given to meet someone else’s need without expecting a reward…
    Blessings come within the deep sense of pleasure for that special little something done as a random anonymous act of kindness and generosity to cheer another soul on their journey of life… 
    Blessings come specific to each person… for we are each created unique.  My blessings are different from yours, and yours are different from those who you know.  When we truly stop to think about it, we realize that all of life is a blessing.  I remember the old hymn from my childhood, “Count your blessings, name them one by one. Count your blessings, see what God hath done…”  But, in reality, I cannot even begin to count all my blessings nor to comprehend their great number.  And that’s the key – understanding that all of life, from this entire world and universe down to our little life in and of itself, is a blessing in every way imaginable from our great and awesome God!
    Blessings come with prayer and a thankful heart as we receive them from God.  He, as creator of this universe and each of us within it, owes us nothing.  Yet, He loved us so much, despite our disobedient ungrateful hearts, that “[He] shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. (Romans 5:8)  We owe Him everything… every ounce of praise from our thankful heart… for from Him, we have life, even the air we breathe, and so much more which we take for granted every day… and from Him, we have our precious gift of eternal salvation that nothing can destroy.
    And when we see our life and the world around us that way, we truly see our blessings with a grateful heart… ready to offer praise with thanksgiving to God for such awesome gifts in even the simplest of treasures.  May you be blessed, today and always!!
    Blessings
    Linda A. Roorda
    Like dawn awaking to a gentle rain
    Are blessings showered upon our lives
    From seemingly small to greatest of all
    They are the simple, and yet not trivial.
    ~
    We take a breath with no thought to the gift
    Each second, each minute of every new day
    Yet it’s a blessing we take for granted
    With nary a thought as to the Giver.
    ~
    From dawn to dusk the sun bathes our world
    As our eyes behold the beauty around us
    With its warming glow is our life enhanced
    While we think naught from whence it came.
    ~
    A whispered word of gentle praise
    And loving concern expressed with feeling
    Abilities shared with ease of talent
    These, too, are blessings which touch deep the soul.
    ~
    An act of kindness, random or thoughtful
    Given from the heart is but a reflection,
    An image of grace like that received
    And bestowed in mercy by our Lord above.
    ~
    Love from the heart, in tenderest form
    Treasures each life we meet on our path,
    To bless another aside from our wants
    Enriches us both as God leads our way.
    ~~
  7. Linda Roorda
    Beauty – we all admire the aesthetic and beautiful in both people and nature, though beauty is in the eye of the beholder they say.  Often, as our young girls strive to look beautiful, they imitate the actresses and models they admire on the “silver screen” or magazine covers.  But youthfulness fails to realize the images are a façade, made more beautiful and glamorous by makeup and the air brush.  It’s not a true beauty.  And a pretty face may not always have a heart of love and compassion.  For “…man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (I Samuel 16:7b)  So then, what is beauty?  And how do we define it? 
    There’s an old-fashioned philosophy which I believe still holds true today.  “Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as [elaborate hairstyles] and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes.  Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.”  (I Peter 3:3-4 NIV) 

    With those wise words from Scripture in mind, when we give of ourselves to benefit others, a depth of beauty is seen through the glow of an unselfish act – the embodiment of genuine love for others.  “Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.” (Proverbs 31:30) Living our life to please God reflects the unique inner beauty He has blessed each of us with.  “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mothers’ womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful. I know that full well.” (Psalm 139:13-14)
    We show the beauty of true character by reaching out to help those in need, especially those who cannot pay us back for such a generous gift.  Beauty is in a heart of humility, serving others with grace and gentle kindness.  Beauty shines brightly when we don’t call attention to ourselves… as we quietly go about living a life of peace by showing honor and respect to all we meet on our path of life.  For you will know when someone has been deeply touched by the beauty of your heart…
    Yet, the question must be asked… what is the opposite of love’s beauty?  The generous airs or charms put on to cover that which is defiled… a self-proclaimed boasting in how humble one is… the disguising of a selfish attitude of pride filled with self-centeredness and greed… an indifference, or absence of emotion, caring, compassion, and love.
    Which brings us back to our initial question, what is beauty? Smiles to brighten someone’s day… a helping hand serving those in need... sharing truth with true humility… earning trust with acceptance and respect of others… generous acts of kindness strewn among friends and strangers… and an unfading gentle spirit of love and peace found within the selfless heart.  Among these and more we find true beauty… 
    For “[beauty] should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.” (I Peter 3:4)
    What is Beauty?
    Linda A. Roorda 
    What is beauty if the heart is shallow
    What is glamor when rudeness takes charge
    And what is charm with selfish desire…
    For what is love but the giving of self?
    ~
    What then are words when the mind deceives
    What is character with rebellious soul
    Or enticing lures to captivate hearts…
    For what is virtue but integrity’s truth?
    ~
    What is kindness if the tongue reviles
    And what is honor without reputation
    Or the humble soul if boastful and proud…
    For what is grace but gentle elegance?
    ~
    What is adornment when respect has fled
    What are principles if deceit is the core
    What is esteem when self is worth more…
    For what is honor but morality’s judge?
    ~
    What then is beauty but innocence pure
    The charm and grace of respectful repute
    Humility’s stance with integrity’s honor…
    For what is beauty but the gift of self?
    ~~
  8. Linda Roorda
    Father’s Day… a time to remember the dads we treasure.  They’ve taught us well in the ways of life.  I remember a lot about my dad.  In fact, it would be fair to say that I had put him on a pedestal while growing up… not a wise placement for anyone. But it seems he could do anything and everything, a jack-of-all-trades, almost perfect in my little girl eyes.  Though none of us can measure up all the time, there is One who is perfect… who forgives all our failings… our heavenly Father.
    But, yes, there is so much my Dad taught me and my five siblings, including all about the love of Jesus.   As a small child on the farm, I would say, “Jesus is my best friend!”  But, for a time as a teen, I forgot my childhood friend until my Dad reminded me of those words I used to say as a little girl.  Oops! 
    I loved playing board games on Sunday afternoons with my Dad, especially Scrabble. I love the challenge of this game and tend to play aggressively, perhaps because I was in tough competition with my Dad.  Though I won only one game against him over those several years, it was a sweet victory knowing that I’d accomplished the win without his having given me an edge… his way of readying us for the world.
    He taught me honesty was the right way such that in 8th grade English class I chose to write an essay entitled “Honesty Is The Best Policy”, receiving a coveted A.  Actually, I think I may have gotten writing and art abilities from him.  Although he was an exceptional storyteller, perfectly imitating voice and mannerisms of various comedians, I speak best through the written word.  He also had a gift for drawing with his talent for art passed on to me and my son.  He loved trains, especially the old steam engines, having grown up next to the tracks in Clifton, NJ.  I loved watching him as he built a passenger car for his train set, using a tweezers to handle those tiny parts.  I watched him build Packard and Duesenberg model cars, and a German Focke-Wulf plane from WWII, taking us with him as he flew it using a remote-control system… until an unexpected gust of wind dove and smashed the plane into the ground.
    As we grew up, we loved hearing Dad tell family stories of his and our childhoods.  He had a gift for telling any story in a humorous unique way, and how I long to hear them all again.  I’d ask him to write them down for posterity, but he never did.  When he drove truck in the 1960s through the 1990s (and later huge tractors for an Iowan farmer), he’d come home with stories from the road.  He shared radio routines by Bill Cosby and southern Cajun comedians, recalling their stories and imitating accents perfectly!  That was way better entertainment than TV any day! 
    I recall a few stories of his time in the Army at Fort Greely, Alaska (1956-1957), a foreign assignment before official statehood.  From 18 months to 2 years of age, I was too young to remember my six months at Delta Junction with my baby sister.  But I also remember having heard how he, his best buddy Roland Neefe, and two other friends found a sunken rowboat.  As it lay not far below the surface of a lake, they pulled it up, cleaned it off, and took it out to fish.  It made for an interesting adventure to say the least – while they took turns fishing, the other three worked hard at bailing to keep the boat afloat!  Now that’s dedicated fishermen! 
    Fort Greely is also where he learned to drive big rigs.  With someone ill, he was asked to take over in the motor pool one night.  Proving he could handle backing up a trailer perfectly, the commanding officer asked where he’d learned to do that since everyone else struggled.  “Backing up a manure spreader, Sir!” was his dutiful reply.  They kept him in the motor pool, where he gained invaluable training for later driving 18-wheelers.
    He was also given a rare promotion because he took the time to thoroughly clean an office coffeepot, a skill learned from his Dutch immigrant mother who had taught him all aspects of housekeeping while growing up, like any good Dutch mother.  With a general visiting Fort Greely, the coffee-making task was passed off to my Dad as no one wanted to be making coffee for a general!  He didn’t complain but took pains to provide a clean urn for making fresh-percolated coffee… which greatly impressed the general.  When the general asked who made the coffee, the aide who was supposed to have made it “blamed” my Dad.  Instead of the feared reprimand for the typically bad-tasting coffee the office was known for, the general complimented my father on making the best cup he’d ever tasted!  Turning to the senior officer, he ordered him to give my father a promotion!
    When we were younger, he always had time for us. When we lived in Jersey, I loved it when he took us fishing at Garret Mountain in Clifton, Lake Hopatcong and Upper Greenwood Lake. It got me out of the city and into nature where I felt at ease.  And, though I could never bring myself to touch those worms (still can’t!), let alone put them on a hook, and never did catch “the big one,” it was the quality time with our Dad that meant so much to us kids.  As a tomboy, I especially enjoyed working outside with my Dad whether it was in the barn learning to care for the animals, in the huge vegetable gardens, or traipsing the fields and woods to hunt rabbits and deer.  That love just naturally transferred to enjoying time spent working alongside my husband in the barn or in the yard, and growing and weeding gardens of my own.
    As we grew older, we teens were often in our own little world yet I still adored my Dad.  He listened and gave sound advice.  I recall the day he didn’t go to work, taking me instead for a drive to discuss a problem I was dealing with.  At times though, I wasn’t ready to listen to him because, as life moved on, his anger took control and he wasn’t always there for us as a family, causing division with his divorce by expecting full support for his side.  No parent in a divorce situation should ever do that their children.
    But I treasure our renewed relationship later in life.  With apologies for my own errors as a teen, I heard his sadness as I expressed how family dysfunction affected all of us, and he understood my saying I/we all had needed him more than he realized when he was on the road for 2-4 weeks at a time.  I appreciated his compliments on my writing for a local newspaper, my own blogs, publishing genealogy research in a nationally recognized journal (The New York Genealogical & Biographical Record), and for how well I raised my family and took care of my Mom, even saying he’d never realized all the difficulties I’d faced in my life.  Honesty and forgiveness cleared the way for a better relationship with love expressed to both my parents.  God truly takes our most difficult situations, working them for our good when we love Him, admit our errors, and make amends.
    My Dad’s careers changed from his love of farming, to driving a grain truck delivering feed to dairy farmers (winning top NY State Purina Feed salesman awards for 1961 and 1962), to carpentry with his Dad, a revered general contractor in northeast New Jersey, to driving an 18-wheeler hauling tanks locally and later OTR (over the road/cross country).  When we lived in Clifton, NJ, he drove chemical tankers “locally” in northeast Jersey, southern New England, and New York City.  What stories he brought home from his experiences!  I got to ride with him only twice and wish it could have been more.
    But I was never so happy as when we moved back to New York on August 16, 1969!  Though I hated city life, I can now look back at special memories of Clifton where I was born.  As we settled into “backyard farming,” he taught me how to care for our mare, War Bugg, a granddaughter of Man O’ War, a retired Western working ranch registered Quarter Horse.  One of his trucking buddies also rode the rodeo circuit and put War Bugg through her paces – she did a figure-eight so tight you’d’ve thought she’d fall over!  I helped Dad build her corral and box stall in the barn, along with re-roofing and remodeling the old chicken coop for our flock.  And then came the heavy-duty barn chores of bringing hay down out of the mow, hauling 50-lb bags of grain, mucking out the pens, learning to groom War Bugg and pick up her feet to clean the soft undersides, devouring books on horses and their care, dreaming of being an equine vet.  I saw his deep concern when I stepped on a wasp’s nest in the haymow with 11 stings on my leg, and his gratefulness for my dousing him with a 5-gallon pail of water when a torch threatened to catch him on fire while trying to burn tent caterpillars, chuckling later that I almost drowned him! He did have a great sense of humor, which I valued in my husband Ed, too.
    But I also learned the hard way that running War Bugg flat out up the road and back could have killed her, hot, sweaty and lathered.  Not realizing the depth of War Bugg’s Western training, I’d simply clicked my tongue and she took off like a rocket, so I let her run… on the paved road.  I was scolded hard, yet taught to walk her slowly, allowing her to have only small sips of warm water till she cooled down.  After riding her another time, I dismounted, tied her to the backyard light pole, and ran into the house briefly.  On returning, I realized she’d pulled on and broken her bridle, standing as if still tied with reins straight down.  And it was then I realized she was Western trained to be “ground tied” and to take off at the click of the tongue, very responsive to touch, the absolute best horse!  I still miss her… and her gentle neighs when I put grain and hay in her feed trough.
    Soon enough, I got married and began a new life with my new family, while my siblings and parents scattered themselves around the U.S.  Life changes, and we change with it. We learn from those childhood mistakes and grow up wiser for them.  As a child, I teased Dad when he turned 30 that he was old, and that when he’d turn 50 he’d be “over the hill!”  Well, Dad, guess what?  Your oldest daughter reached that milestone a good ways back, and she’s still thankful to be alive and working!  Giving him this writing in 2014 before he passed away April 17, 2015, his wedding anniversary with my Mom, he knew I felt blessed to have him as my Dad.  Sometimes I wish I could go back and relive the childhood fun of days long ago, but I treasure those memories that linger still... and I love you, Dad!
    May you each be blessed with very special memories of your Dad, too!  Happy Father’s Day! 
    I Remember A Dad
    Linda A. Roorda
    I remember a dad who took me fishin’
    And remember a dad who hooked my worms,
    Who took those hooks from fishy mouths,
    And showed me the country way of life.
    ~
    A family of six, two girls and four boys
    Fun and trouble we shared as we grew.
    From farms and fields to paved avenues,
    Walking and biking, exploring we went.
    ~
    I remember a time spent playing games,
    A dad who’d not cheat for us to win.
    Family and friends and holiday dinners,
    Lakes and farms and countryside drives.
    ~
    Weeds were the bane of childhood fun,
    So ‘tween the rows we ran and we played.
    But as I grew and matured in age,
    Weeding was therapy in gardens of mine.
    ~
    I remember a dad who thrived on farming
    Livestock and gardens, and teaching me how.
    I remember a dad who took me huntin’
    Scoutin’ the fields, always alert.
    ~
    I remember a dad who taught us more
    For growing up we learn by example.
    I remember working alongside my dad
    Roofing a barn and building corrals.
    ~
    I remember a dad whose gifts were given
    In fairness to meet each child’s desire.
    I remember a dad whose wisdom we honor
    In memories of caring and love in small ways.
    ~
    I remember a dad who brought us laughter
    With Cajun and Cosby stories retold.
    For blessed with a gift of retelling tales
    Family and childhood events he recalled.
    ~
    I remember a dad whose time was given
    To help his children face life’s turmoils.
    Time spent together are memories treasured
    For things done best put family first.
    ~
    I remember a dad who taught me more
    To treasure my faith in Jesus my friend.
    In looking to Him as Savior and Lord,
    Salvation by Grace, not earned by my deed.
    ~
    As I look back to days long ago,
    I remember the dad I knew so well.
    For I miss the dad who took me fishin’
    And remember the dad who taught me more.
    ~
  9. Linda Roorda
    The old red barn stood tall on an open flat, alone against the gray sky, testament to a long life.  It had weathered countless storms, looking a tad bit worn… another great photo by my childhood friend's husband.  And once again, the picture painted a thousand words that raced through my thoughts.
    For some time now, I’ve felt like writer’s block has taken away my ability to write reflections, never mind the poems where words used to flow through my fingers almost faster than I could write or type. When the words stopped flowing, I knew the poem was complete. I would literally feel drained… because those words came from the depths of my soul, often a cathartic poem which healed emotional wounds long embedded deep.  And perhaps that’s the point… as God reaches out to each of us, maybe there comes a time when healing is complete from a time and place long ago.
    After my husband passed away last year, I thought about the brevity of life… now facing my own “autumn/winter” phase of life’s four seasons.  Spring is, after all, a beginning, the gift of new life and growth, the carefree days of youth… then summer comes along and we’re in our prime with busy days where all is well with us and the world around, learning and yearning through the passage of time…. as autumn slowly engulfs us in its changes, with colorful harvesting of awards and rewards, reaping the benefits of what we had begun… while winter overtakes us unannounced, bringing a cold and quiet idleness of hands and feet, leaving us breathless to keep up with an ever-changing world which seemingly has no use for our skills or input… though often we ably repurpose our days and ways to assist another soul on their journey to success… as forever onward we go.
    And if you were one of those to whom Ed opened his heart, you were blessed. He shared his life stories with me over the years, but it was never enough. 
    So, in honor of his heavenly birthday on Tuesday the 25th, I’m sharing a few memories of his life. A premature twin by two months, his twin Peter died at two days, being larger at 5 lbs.  But at 3-1/2 lbs, Ed was placed in an incubator for a month with pure oxygen which damaged his eyes – the right eye was totally blind while the left eye had very limited vision at 20/200 with corrective lenses.  He got his first glasses at about age 2, one of 8 children who had some vision among about 2000 seen at Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center in New York City with this type of oxygen-related retinal damage, the same cause of Stevie Wonder's blindness.
    He loved farming from the time he could walk. He was also apparently a little instigator of a few sticky situations he and his brother got themselves into… like tying a dog to a fence the way they’d seen calves tied up, except the dog was not happy about it and barked profusely as they ran crying to their Dad. He also had a cat who would wait for him to get off the bus at the end of their long farm driveway.  The cat would jump onto his shoulders and enjoy a ride back to the house.  Ed used to throw his art papers into a ditch, but his sister saw them, and brought them home to their Mom to appreciate as all Moms do. 
    Ed learned to drive tractor at a very young age, a John Deere 520. Knowing his vision was not good, he was always extra cautious around machinery to prevent a terrible accident.  That, however, did not keep him from having accidents – like after the first day of kindergarten, he fell with a glass jar in his hand, cutting his hand badly, requiring many sutures to close the large gash leaving quite the scar, or playing on top of the idle hay baler, falling off and breaking his wrist. Oh, the fun of little boys!
    He needed weekly allergy shots for “just about everything” as Ed put it.  He knew when it was time for his next shot, perhaps the only kid who looked forward to shots because he’d feel better afterward.  Being stoic was just who he was.  I remember when he injured a finger with the nail retaining a blood blister underneath, and the pain he had… so, he simply put a fine bit into the drill and made a hole which relieved the pressure by releasing the blood. 
    He insisted on doing whatever he could for as long as possible to be like everyone else.  He tried to be there for me and our children as best he could. He loved to read to them when he’d come in from barn chores at night, giving us all his sound advice as needed, and how we miss his big snugging hugs.
    Like my friend Elaine said when Ed passed away, we lost his wealth of knowledge. We not only lost his wit and wisdom, but the kind and gentle peaceable man that he was, and a tremendous knowledge that he kept tucked away and shared now ‘n then... because he was not a big talker.  Especially as he became sicker, it was almost too much effort for him to make steady conversation.  But it was apparently difficult for some folks to understand this when he was so ill.
    Recently celebrating Father’s Day, that barn seemed to be the perfect illustration of my husband Ed’s character over the years.  In fact, the day I saw the photo, and wrote this poem in a couple hours in 2017, I was waiting to bring him home from yet another hospitalization.  Stalwart and steadfast, he had remained standing no matter what life sent his way, a true gentle giant.  And like that barn, he’d faced many storms head on, never bending or collapsing as the winds attempted to shake his foundation. He remained firm and resolute with his faith in our Lord, resting secure in God’s provision and love, a pillar of strength for our family. 
    Yet, it had not been easy.  There had been some serious storms that sent waves crashing against him… and against us as a couple.  Despite some plain old-fashioned trials, dashed hopes causing great disappointments, the loss of a daughter, and his losses of sight, physical strength and ability, he overcame those trials with an inner strength and peace that came from his strong faith in our Lord.  For it was God’s wisdom gifted to Ed which saw him through as he grew up, married, helped raise our children, and changed careers from farming to office assistant.
    Later, facing a continued ebbing of strength and ability with the progression of permanent muscle damage caused by statin/cholesterol drugs, and worsening congestive heart failure, we began discussing what we should do when he could no longer function and get around on his own.  In all honesty, we didn’t know what our options would be in the not-so-distant future.  We were facing new frontiers. And then, in late 2022, Ed’s health deteriorated even more as he succumbed to several health issues magnified by Covid-19, leaving this world on God’s timeline in January 2023.
    Still, through each difficulty, his and our faith grew stronger, for we’d learned that “[we] can do all things through [Christ] who strengthens [us]” (Philippians 4:13)  As I’ve said many times before, and I often need reminding of, James 1:2-4 puts it so well even though we don’t want to welcome one more difficult challenge.  “Consider it pure joy my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance.  Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, lacking nothing.” 
    Being “strong in the Lord and in His mighty power” (Ephesians 6:10-13) is the foundation on which we survive great storms and come out standing. (Proverbs 10:25)  Just like that barn in Hugh’s photo, if we have a firm foundation on the solid rock (faith in our Savior Jesus Christ), weathered by time (experience and wisdom), the structure (our character) will stand tall… and prove stalwart and unwavering. 
    The Stalwart
    Linda A. Roorda
     Stalwart and stoic through the test of time
    Facing the world to weather life’s storms
    Meeting head on whatever befalls
    Humbly proclaiming, steadfast I stand.
    ~
    Bringing together nature’s harmony
    Weathered and worn, reliably true
    Dependably there to meet others’ needs
    Asking for nothing but structural care.
    ~
    Like the pioneers who settled this land
    And carved their place from wilderness wild,
    Weathered by nature midst elements raw
    They kept life sheltered from all threats and harm.
    ~
    Without proper care, wood planks become warped
    Foundations fail without wisdom’s base.
    Oh, can’t you see!  The meaning is clear!
    How like old barns are patriarchs wise.
    ~
    Learning through hardship true wisdom is gained
    Taking a stand for what matters most,
    Sometimes enduring alone in the crowd
    Serene and secure midst turmoil and storm.
    ~
    God bless the stalwart, unwavering friend
    Who braves the path no matter the storm.
    Of foe unafraid, on wisdom standing
    Steadfast and loyal with comforting peace.
    ~~
  10. Linda Roorda
    Oh, the countless blessings of God!  He is so good to all of us in so many ways!  And my heart sings in praise and thanksgiving for all that He has done in my life!
    Recently, I flew out to visit my daughter and her family. And I gotta tell you, they were so good to me!  I don’t like flying, but the flight from ELM to DET left way more than a bit to be desired.  Taking generic Dramamine, I learned the hard way it is not as effective as the real deal. So, gripping that little white bag kindly provided by the airline, and white-knuckling the armrest through dramatic turbulence, I was more than glad to deplane, yet not delighted to get on yet another plane from DET to MSP.  Thankfully, the motion sickness was not as severe on that leg of the journey, but I was so very happy to land!!
    With the flight worsening my minor head cold to include bronchitis, I was not the energetic Grammy they expected.  Despite the downside, and not being able to visit the zoo and a Native American history center Emily planned, we did stroll through St. Cloud University’s arts and craft vendor displays, watched their oldest son swim in his first competition, saw their middle son go fly a kite and made an origami crane as he told me how to fold it, drew and colored a blooming plant with their youngest son, viewed the exhibits at a local county museum, and played numerous games of checkers, magnetic chess, RackO, and Sequence when I needed the rest.
    I also greatly appreciated the thought my daughter gave to movie selections – Bambi, Those Calloways, and The Sound of Music!  In the summer of ’65, my dad had taken me and my sister to the Clifton Theater two blocks from home in Jersey to see the double feature - Bambi and Those Calloways.  Remembering only the vicious wolverine and square dance scenes from Those Calloways, I’d always wanted to see the movie again. Looking forward to April 23, 1978 when it was featured on NBC’s Sunday night Disney theater… it was with mixed emotions that I could not watch it… because we went to the hospital for Jennifer to be born early the next morning!  So, thank you again, Emily, for choosing that movie for your Mom!  And then she chose her and my favorite, The Sound of Music, which my dad also took me and my sister to see in Clifton in the latter 1960s.
    After returning home, my son and his wife and children came to visit.  Going to Ithaca’s Science Center, it was a pleasure to watch the kids enjoy all the hands-on experiences!  Even Grammy put her fear aside and petted the pink gecko held by a staff member.  Playing games at home, or walking the gardens with me, brought shared blessings of family time.
    It seems that, among things we might consider minor in the overall scheme of life, are so many special blessings! Yet, we often go on our way without looking closer and being so very thankful for the “little” silver linings… reminding me of how much God loves us in all those “little” things we take for granted.
    From the moment we awaken until our day draws to a close, we are loved and cared for by an awesome God!  Each breath we take is His gift.  Each beautiful sunrise and setting sunset shines forth glorious rays upon His creation in different hues.  The gift of love, the touch of a hand in comfort and peace, in joy and sorrow, the moments of special fun that we savor… these are all precious gifts from our God. 
    For we were created that we would have a relationship with the Lord of our life.  God created us with a purpose… to bring glory and honor back to Him in all that we do.  For all we are, and all we will be, have come from His hand.  And He showers His love upon us as He provides for our every need, blessing us richly if we but open our eyes to see and understand.  Oh God, You are so good to me! 
    You are so good to me!
    Linda A. Roorda 
    Oh God, You are so good to me!
    You loved me ere I came to be
    I thank you for the life that You gave
    That I may live covered by mercy.
     ~
    I praise You for the gifts You’ve given
    The talents hidden and openly used
    From blessings I see to~ those hid from view
    You care for me beyond ways to count.
     ~
    I thank You for each bright sunrise
    As golden rays stream down upon earth
    And birds awaken with their songs of praise
    While we yawn and stretch to start a new day.
     ~
    Be with me Lord, my prayer for this day
    May all the words and thoughts of my heart
    Bring honor to You, my strength and my shield
    As I align my steps on Your path.
     ~
    Help me to keep my tongue in check
    When frustrations mount throughout my day
    May I with patience attend to my tasks
    And seek Your will in all that I do.
    ~ 
    Prayers for my friends and family dear
    To keep and protect each one on their way
    And may they know Your love that surrounds
    Like a warm hug will protect and guide.
     ~
    And when temptations sneak in unannounced
    Open my eyes Lord, your wisdom to see
    May I discern the right from the wrong
    To keep my feet on Your righteous path.
     ~
    With grateful thanks I now close my day
    You covered my needs in blessings poured out
    With a joyful heart for Your care of me
    Rejoicing in peace, contented am I.
    ~~ 
  11. Linda Roorda
    I was as shocked as anyone else at last night’s happenings where our former President Trump was shot in an assassination attempt.  And I thank God that his life was spared by a fraction of measurement.  My heart and prayers go out to Donald Trump and his family, to the family of the innocent gentleman in the crowd who was killed, and to the two who were critically injured.  We need to get back to respecting everyone, regardless of who they are.
    ~~
    “Am I my brother’s keeper?”  Unequivocally, yes, I am… yes, we are.  Words defiantly spoken by Cain in response to God’s simple question, “Where is your brother Abel?”  Cain knew... after all, he had just taken his brother’s life in a fit of jealous rage.  Abel’s offering to God from the best of his flock had been received favorably, while Cain was told by God that if he did what was right his offering would also be accepted.  Instead, jealousy and anger took over Cain’s heart… and the unthinkable murder happened.
    To say we love someone very much is proven false when we fail to show a genuine compassion for their pain and difficulties.  With true empathy for others, we take responsibility for our own actions.  We reach out in humility… we want the best for them, we are happy to see them succeed, and we respect their boundaries.  True love is not about what glory we might attain in the public eye for giving aid.  Rather, it’s about what we can do to give love for others in genuine humility, with no expectation of repayment.
    Jesus told parables to help his followers grasp the deeper meaning.  He told a story about assistance by a Samaritan to an enemy, a Jew, the victim of robbery, beaten, and left for dead.  A priest and Levite passed by, deeming it beneath them to assist the man. Instead, the Samaritan took the victim to be cared for until he fully recovered, paying all expenses.  Jesus expressed in story form what unconditional love and mercy look like:  “’Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”  (Luke 10:27)
    Like the Good Samarian, if we have a heart of love, we view others favorably. We essentially become our “brother’s and sister’s keeper” by understanding the difficulties they might be facing.  With empathy, we feel for our friends in their struggles… we commiserate with them, feel their pain, their sorrow.  We long to reach out and help in any way we can.  In this, we show compassion.  But we also share hope and joy by rejoicing with their blessings, even as they receive accolades and honor. 
    Loving as we’ve been loved showers blessings upon another. It enables us to comfort someone just as we’ve been comforted in similar difficult and painful situations.  As the Apostle Paul wrote in II Corinthians 1:3-4:  “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.” 
    We gain a new understanding from our own failings, with a readiness to help others in need.  We share a compassion like that which we’ve felt from God in our own difficult life circumstances.  For compassion embodies empathy, a type of sympathy, a sharing of the difficulties someone might be facing.  And with this sense of compassion and understanding comes encouragement and hope with joy.
    Jan Dravecky (whose husband, Dave, left baseball following the amputation of his pitching arm due to cancer) said simply and eloquently:  “God really does comfort His children – and most often He chooses to do so through the arms and legs and voices and ears and faces and tears of men and women who have been to the front lines and returned with battle scars.  Someone who has ‘been there’ has the credibility and the understanding to know what it is that the person in pain is going through – the questions, the doubts, the fears.  They can speak both compassionately and authoritatively because of their own experience… Have you considered how God might want to use you to comfort someone in pain?”  Perhaps you’re going through too difficult a time and think you can’t possibly help anyone.  As Jan continued, “…but who better to reach out with understanding, empathy and genuine concern [to those who are facing their own turmoils]?”  (NIV Encouragement Bible, pg. 1546)
    Being our “brother’s and sister’s” keeper is said so well in what we commonly call the Golden Rule.  In His Sermon on the Mount, Jesus summed up how we should love, “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you…” (Matthew 7:12a)  With such love and tender kindness, we’re able to show mercy and compassion to the hurting souls in the world around us, and rejoice to see them blessed. 
    Compassion’s Love
    Linda A. Roorda
    They understand best who have felt despair
    Who shoulder the hurt they turn to blessing
    Where tender voice calls out to the broken
    And carries to rest on peaceful shore.
    ~
    For only those who’ve travelled this road
    The very same road that you struggle on
    Find compassion’s love springs from the heart
    With understanding and emerging hope.
    ~
    In sharing such hope of vistas bright
    Where two or more can better handle
    The way is cleared of scattered debris,
    The heavy load that once overwhelmed.
    ~
    Embracing the weary and burdened heart
    Tender mercies tumble down like rain
    Washing the wounds and depths of despair
    To break their hold and release the pain.
    ~
    As compassion’s love envelopes the soul
    A gentle peace infuses the spirit
    And fills the heart with understanding
    To sing its song with heavenly joy.
    ~~
     
  12. Linda Roorda
    Somewhere deep down inside, each one of us has regrets… for something we said… something we did… something we did not do or say… and we long to go back to do it all over again… only better this time. 
    But we can’t go back.  What’s done is done.  It’s marked in indelible ink on the pages of time.  Yet, there is One who offers forgiveness and peace when we bare our soul to Him of hurts and pains… as we take responsibility and ownership of our mistakes and sins.  For years, my errors festered with regrets.  A while ago, knowing it was time I did something about it, there were a few friends to whom I wrote those long-overdue apologies.  I’m so thankful for their forgiveness, a loving grace on their part.  And, like our Lord’s loving forgiveness, those regrets are replaced with joy as our slates are wiped clean, enabling us to start fresh, to move forward without looking back to rue the past… as the Lord renews our hearts. 
    Writing this poem, I was reminded that Jesus had said, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God.”  (Luke 9:62 NIV)  An old-fashioned plow pulled by a team of oxen or horses is kept straight by the farmer holding the reins and plow handles.  If he looks back to where he’s been, he can’t guide the team and the rows will become ever more crooked.  But, if the farmer keeps his eyes focused ahead, aiming for a point in the distance, he guides the team through the reins as he handles the plow, and his rows stay straight.  Just like driving today’s tractor or car – we tend to stray from our lane if we look backwards or all around.  Our eyes need to remain focused on what lies ahead.
    And so it is in our daily life.  If we keep looking back to where we’ve been and to the mistakes we’ve made, we aren’t going to be much good to anyone else, let alone ourselves.  It’s not helpful to live with constant regrets… it’s far better to take what we’ve learned and grow from our mistakes – once we’ve fully confessed them and asked for forgiveness, of course.  For, with backward gazing, we may find we begin to sink like Peter when he took his eyes off the Lord as he looked in fear at the deep water he was walking on.  (Matthew 24:22-34)
    I like the image my late husband had shared as we prayed together during a time of stress.  Ed described it as putting our plow into the furrow while focusing on the end of the row where Jesus stands waiting, holding out his hands.  As long as we keep our eyes focused ahead, and follow the Lord and His guiding Word, our life’s path will be straight.
    Easier said than done at times though, isn’t it?  May God bless each of us with His peace as we strive for that straight row towards Him…
    Regrets
    Linda A. Roorda
    Sometimes alone I’ve felt abandoned
    Though my heart knows You still care for me.
    Didn’t You say to reassure
    I’ll never leave; I’ll never forsake?
    ~
    Lord, hold my hand when fears abound
    Help me to feel Your presence near.
    Your love brings peace when to You I flee
    Contentment known as I focus on You.
    ~
    You know who I am.  You know where I’ve been.
    You know where I’m bound on this journey of life.
    You ask of me with a still small voice,
    I hear Your words, but don’t always heed.
    ~
    Within the clamor and din of my world
    Pulled every which way from dawn until dark
    Voices are heard but whose shall I heed
    As sometimes confusion waits by the door.
    ~
    To whom will I bow?  To what give credence?
    So much clamors, my attention to gain.
    Sweet smooth flattery with enticing words,
    Or voice of reason, the wisdom of God?
    ~
    When troubles come and thoughts overwhelm
    I can do nothing but give them to You.
    And in the act of giving them up
    You draw me near from the brink of fear.
    ~
    Some days I wish that I could go back,
    Back to do over in another time
    To all that once was which fills with regret
    For knowledge gained now sees better ways.
    ~
    Then in reaching out You touch my heart.
    Just as I am You accept me now.
    With arms open wide I’m drawn to Your side
    As You cleanse my soul from stains that have marred.
    ~
    How can I thank You for all You have done?
    Where do I begin to tell of Your grace?
    With a grateful heart Your praises I sing
    As You bless me now with Your loving peace.
    ~
    In looking ahead You lighten my step.
    I need only see the future through You.
    Your guiding wisdom now leads me each day
    On a bright new path as Your hand holds mine.
    ~~
  13. Linda Roorda
    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 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 both East Palmyra and Clifton, and Kristin and my sister and I were already friends – we used to visit each other 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 through its rounds, 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 Ed encouraged me by saying, “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 usually 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, developing 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. (John 3:16)  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... for who He created us to be!
    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.
    ~~
     
    Linda Roorda writes from her home in Spencer. 
     
  14. Linda Roorda

    You Are

    By Linda Roorda,

    I grew up in a great church full of my “own kind” – i.e. Dutch immigrants and their first- and second-generation families born in the U.S., the Christian Reformed Church.  I felt a bond and a love for my family and friends from both communities in Clifton, N.J. and East Palmyra, N.Y.  As my family moved back and forth between the two church and Christian school communities, friendships were made with some lasting a lifetime.
    I treasure the churches of my earliest memories.  I treasure having had the opportunity to go to Christian elementary school in both communities through the 6th grade.  I treasure the wisdom gained, and biblical lessons learned.  I treasure Vacation Bible School, Pioneer Girls, and the catechism classes which taught a biblical doctrinal foundation on which to lean during both the good and the difficult times.  But naturally, life moves on even as some of us move away from the tight-knit friendships we once knew.
    But in the midst of life’s happenings, there comes a time when we each have a decision to make – who will we follow?  To whom will we give our hearts?  Is it the things of this earth and the gratification we can readily obtain, or is it the faith and hope in a salvation granted through Jesus’ life and death and resurrection that will provide a heavenly eternal home? 
    At 15, I made the choice for the latter in asking Jesus into my heart under Pastor Wells of the North Waverly Chapel.  Despite getting down on my knees, confessing my sins, and asking for His forgiveness and eternal love, I did not live out my faith as I should have at that time.  Actually, it’s been a lifetime of growth.  Because, being the imperfect beings that we are, we manage to walk through life leaving a trail of mistakes behind.  And all we can do is own our wrongs and say “I’m sorry.  Please forgive me.”
    But I am forever grateful that our great God forgives us on our confession; and, in His gracious mercy, guides us along a better path.  And just as the Lord draws us close to His side and offers redemption, we can give the same forgiveness and love to others who we’ve been blessed to be family and friends with.  
    You Are
    Linda A. Roorda
    You gave your life that I should live
    You carried my sin alone to the cross
    You took my shame that I would find peace
    As You opened arms to welcome with grace.
     ~
    How can I not but love You in turn?
    How can I ever repay Your free gift?
    Precious Redeemer, You gave all for me
    To free my soul from sin’s heavy guilt.
     ~
    You are the One who draws near to me
    And only ask I seek You in faith
    You let me face the trials of life
    As I bring concerns humbly in prayer.
     ~
    For You have shown I belong to You
    With a heart for You I will gladly serve
    You seek me out, call me to Your side
    To show me a love only You can give.
     ~
    What should it matter what others will think?
    In forsaking all this world can offer…
    To You I draw near and lean on Your word
    That I may bring praise to honor Your name.
     ~
    You are my light, the way and the truth
    You guide my steps on this rocky path
    It’s You I seek when storms come my way
    Your words of wisdom will guide day by day.
     ~
    You are my hope when all else seems lost
    Yet may I be found worthy of You
    May I give praise for all You have done
    And all You will do to change me within.
     ~
    When failures dash an expectant hope
    Should I not look upon Your face first
    Seeking Your will before I take reins
    That I would but make Your wisdom my guide.
     ~
    You are my life, the depths of my soul
    Your truth does urge my heart to respond
    That others may see death carries no sting
    For You lift me up that I may withstand.
     ~
    You are my words when I have yet none
    You know my thoughts as I voice to praise
    Your words bring truth to my world of doubts
    To guide and direct, like You to become.
    ~~
  15. Linda Roorda
    With the Union Pacific's Big Boy 4014 making a run this summer/fall, I'm sharing my blog from several years ago. I fell in love with that train, and referenced it when I researched and wrote this blog on the old steam locomotives with input from my Dad a few months before he passed away. He grew up next to the railroad tracks in Clifton NJ and had a life-long love of those old trains, passing that love on to me. The Big Boy's agenda for this fall can be found in this recent news release: 1.2 million-pound steam locomotive 'Big Boy' Heartland of America Tour Kansas stops released.
    Who among us isn’t fascinated by the steam trains of yesteryear?  As the big locomotives and cars rumble past, you can’t help but wonder where they’ve been and where they’re headed. To feel the pulsing ground vibrations of an old steam engine as it chuffs down the track, to see huge billows of smoke and steam with cinders and ash in the air, to smell the smoke and oil, and hear the blowing of the whistle and clanging of the bell all make one's heart beat just a little faster!  The train’s a’comin’!
    Constructing model trains was a hobby of my dad’s, along with setting up a track and miniature town for display.  I remember watching him when I was in kindergarten as he built a passenger car with its tiny pieces.  In the mid to late 1960s, I also enjoyed it when he took us kids on the annual drive to a small, non-descript building in Carlstadt, New Jersey.  There, our eyes were opened to a whole ‘nother world as both O (1/4” scale) and HO (1/8” scale) gauge trains were set up in working displays.  And many a youngster has been thrilled to open the much-anticipated Christmas gift of a model train set like these!

    At the New York Society of Model Engineers display at 341 Hoboken Rd, Carlstadt, NJ 07072, the HO-gauge trains run through small towns, farming communities and mountain passes – with sound effects of the old locomotives.  The display is not huge by any means, encompassing two good-sized rooms, but it’s a fantastic setup nonetheless.
    My Dad, Ralph, was born to Dutch immigrants in Kalamazoo, Michigan, but grew up in Clifton, New Jersey next to the train tracks, where he developed his love for the old steam engines.  Clifton had two train stations – one for the Erie Railroad and one for the Delaware, Lackawanna & Western Railroad.  Eventually, they consolidated as the Erie-Lackawanna Railroad in 1960.  We lived opposite the closed Erie station in the latter 1960s, the parking lot being a great paved playground for us kids; but it has since been demolished like many others, the loss of a priceless piece of history, to make way for new business buildings.
    In talking with my father while writing this article in 2014, he told me, “Steam engines were doing a great job, getting better and better, especially when the Big Boy locomotives were developed and used out west.”  He told me their wheel designation was 4-8-8-4, which I’d learned from my research so I knew exactly what he was talking about.  He explained, “They had a front 4-wheeled truck to stabilize the engine on the curves, followed by 8 driving wheels, another set of 8 drivers, and a rear 4-wheeled truck underneath the engine’s firebox with the tender car coupled behind that.  Tenders carried the train’s fuel [coal, wood or oil] and water.  The Big Boys were used to pull freight cars a mile or more in length over the western mountains.” 
    Dad added that, in the latter 1940s after World War II, it was determined diesel engines could do a better job and go faster than the old steam engines.  “But actually, a steam locomotive could accelerate faster from a standing start than diesels, which were slower to get started; once they got up to speed though, the diesels could travel much faster than steam engines.”  By 1950, he said, the railroad companies had switched all their locomotives to diesel.  “But now and then you might see a rare steam engine being used on the track just because it was available.”
    My Dad also explained that steam locomotives needed a tremendous amount of water to create steam from the burning fuel.  For example, in The Great Book of Railways, I learned that the Big Boys used “22 tons of coal and 44 tons of water every hour.” (p.20)  Clean-burning anthracite coal from Pennsylvania mines was used to fuel steam engines in the eastern U.S. with coal from Wyoming used for the western trains.  I was surprised to hear my Dad say that oil was also used for trains out west because of the availability, but with the proximity of oil wells that makes sense.  “And water tanks,” he added, “were set up every so many miles along with places to take on more coal.  Some trains used extra tenders to carry additional fuel needed for their run.  And sometimes, to get a train up a mountain, more than one engine was coupled together to haul the freight cars up, or they used pusher locomotives at the rear of the cars.”
    And then my Dad, who never passed up the opportunity to tell a good story, shared this one about a well-seasoned engineer running a steam locomotive with a long line of cars.  They’d just hired a new young fireman on the crew.  As the train pulled up to a water tower, the engineer placed the tender exactly in position to take on water.  Pulling the chain on the gantry (crane), the young fireman filled the tender.  When he was done, he released the chain, took a look in the tender to check the water level and fell in, yelling for help, paddling to stay afloat, wondering how long it would take for them to get him out of there.  After a while the old engineer strolled back to see what was taking so long.  Peering into the tender, he pondered the sight that met his eyes, and calmly said, “You know, son… you don’t need to tamp the water down!”
    I have to admit – I really enjoy researching and writing articles for the learning I gain in the process, but this article was one of my absolute favorites as it meant so much to my Dad who was on Hospice at the time of this writing (passing away in April 2015).  And it carries childhood memories of time spent with my Dad at the Jersey train shows.  So, come along and together we’ll learn the history of those grand old iron horses, the steam locomotives.
    Looking back to the start of the 19th century, life was moving forward at a relatively slow pace.  The times still invoked thoughts of the century past in every-day life, but now there was a sense of optimism in our new nation.  And, if they could only have known of the many improvements to come in the new century, they’d have shaken their heads in disbelief, just as our view backward amazes us at our nation’s changes.
    Since the invention of the wheel, man has been contemplating how to make a better wheel or vehicle to transport all manner of goods.  England’s mines were the backdrop for development of the early steam locomotives by some of the best engineers in the late 18th to early 19th centuries.  Beginning in February 1804, Richard Trevithick’s locomotive invention hauled iron and passengers, followed by locomotives for racked/cogged rails (trains with a center driving wheel which engages with the racked or cogged rail for climbing steep grades) as designed by John Blenkinsop in 1812.  The next year William Hedley’s Puffing Billies came on the scene (the first smooth-wheeled locomotives), with George Stephenson’s steam locomotive of 1814 designed to work at a typical colliery (British deep-pit coal mine).  [The Great Book of Railways, pp.8-9]

    On a side note, the above research regarding Hedley’s Puffing Billy trains brought to mind a favorite children’s song that perhaps others remember.  “Down by the station, Early in the morning, See the little pufferbellies, All in a row.  See the station master, Turn the little handle [we sang throttle], Chug chug, puff puff, Off they go!”  Supposedly written by Lee Ricks and Slim Gaillard in 1948, the words go back to a 1931 Recreation magazine, with a tune similar to Alouette; and first popularized by Tommy Dorsey.  (Wikipedia) 
    American ingenuity took a little longer than the Brits to work itself up to full steam.  With the Delaware & Hudson Canal Company forming in 1823, the intent was to construct and operate canals between New York City and the coal mines near Carbondale in northeast Pennsylvania.  Eventually, the idea of locomotive power became their focus as a more efficient means of transporting both coal and passengers.  With that in mind, the D&H engineers took a tour of England’s renowned locomotive factories to gauge what would best meet their needs. 
    This tour led the Delaware & Hudson Canal Company to order the first steam locomotives for use in the United States.  Built in England in 1828 by Foster, Rastrick & Company, the Stourbridge Lion was shipped over in pieces and reassembled at New York’s West Point Foundry.  Ready for its first official run made on August 8, 1829, it was meant to carry coal from the mines near Carbondale to the canal at Honesdale, Pennsylvania.  Weighing about 7-1/2 tons, however, it was too heavy for the wooden track, a definite disappointment as the engineers had sent requirements to England for a locomotive weighing not more than 4 tons.  However, by the early 1830s, steam locomotives were being built in the United States.  
    Col. John Stevens, the “father of American railroads,” set up an experimental track by 1826 on his property in Hoboken, New Jersey to prove the viability of a steam locomotive operation.  In 1830, Peter Cooper built the first American-made steam locomotive, the Tom Thumb, which ran on common track.  The public was additionally impressed when George Pullman invented the Pullman Sleeping Car in 1857, improving passengers’ over-night travel. 
    With much of our early transportation dependent upon beasts of burden over roads which were not of the best quality (previously published under my blog "Traveling From Here to There"), or by boats on the rivers and lakes, a boon developed with the construction of numerous canals.  Following close on the heels of New York’s Erie Canal debut in 1825 (see my Homestead article "Clinton’s Ditch, aka The Erie Canal") was the burgeoning development of the railroad.  With a good percentage of engineers graduating from the U. S. Military Academy at West Point, their knowledge was put to active use in surveying, planning and developing the railroads.  With their expertise, many of these West Point graduates soon became presidents and officers of the various railroad companies. 
    Each state soon began granting charters to these newly-formed railroad companies.  Among the earliest to be chartered was the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad (B&O) in 1827.  Intended to run between Baltimore and the Ohio River, its first section opened May 24, 1830.  New York’s Mohawk & Hudson Railroad was incorporated in 1826, and began operating in August 1831.  Its first locomotive was the DeWitt Clinton, named for the former New York State governor of Erie Canal fame.  The Saratoga & Schenectady Railroad followed soon after with its opening in June 1832.  Even then, ideas were being discussed regarding laying longer track from New York to Buffalo; but, it was a delicate subject as the state was heavily in debt for the Erie Canal which had just opened in 1825.  
    Throughout the succeeding decades, many small railroad corporations merged to operate more efficiently.  In particular, the New York Central, headquartered in New York City, eventually became the main consolidated corporation in the northeast and Midwest as it merged with more than half a dozen other companies.
    Innumerable side tracks were laid to meet the transportation needs of outlying regions as freight was shipped more efficiently than previously.  Towns vied for the opportunity to be on a rail line or spur, able to ship products out from a nearby hub rather than the expense of taking goods to a station many miles away.  Some towns were established after track was laid.  Stations built in towns on the line included water towers there and along the route to replenish the locomotive’s need to create steam and thus power.  The public found it convenient to take a passenger train for a trip to the next town or hundreds of miles away.  It sure beat the slow horse and buggy!

    But a major issue began to build as train schedules were based on differing times in towns along any given route.  To bring this under control, the railroads determined standard time was of vital importance.  At noon on November 18, 1883, standard time zones for both American and Canadian railroads began.  Prior to this date, both nations were riddled with innumerable differences in time across the countryside.  The vast differences stemmed from the use of “high noon” as each town clock was set depending upon when the sun was at its peak above their town.  Obviously, the discrepancies in time caused a nightmare for train schedules, and standardized time was the only logical answer.  Without government approval, the powerful railroad companies established four standard time zones which remain close to those still in use.  In 1918, Congress formalized the arrangement, putting the railroads under the Interstate Commerce Commission.  Prior to America’s adoption of standard time, the Great Western Railroad had established standard time in Britain beginning in 1840, with virtually all railroads adopting London time by 1847.
    It should also be mentioned that tracks were built to different size specifications.  Northern railroads typically used a standard 4 ft 8-1/2 inch or 4 ft 9 inch wide track.  This was based on English track dimensions and the fact that U.S. railroads expected to import more British-made locomotives.  This was the gauge used by George Stephenson (British inventor above) for his locomotives simply because he was familiar with this track width from a local mine near Newcastle.  As it turns out, that gauge was used for the mine track simply because it was the common width of local ancient Roman roads in England.  It was next determined by measurements taken at excavations in Pompeii and elsewhere that ancient Roman roads were made for a standard chariot wheelbase of about 4 ft 9 inches or slightly less!  And that is how 4 ft 8-1/2 inch rails became the industry standard!
    The early American railroads like the Baltimore & Ohio and Boston & Albany set their rails at 4 ft 8-1/2 inches, the Pennsylvania R.R. used 4 ft 9 inches, the Erie and Lackawanna both used 6 ft 0 inch tracks, Canada used a 5 ft 6 inch gauge, while Southern U.S. rails were set at 5 ft 0 inches. 
    Obviously, the discrepancies prevented trains from running on certain track, necessitating standardization throughout the industry.  I was amazed to learn that for 36 hours over two days starting May 31, 1886, thousands upon thousands of workers pulled spikes from all west-bound tracks in the South, moved the rails in by 3 inches to 4 ft 9 inches, and immediately replaced the spikes. Thus, as of June 1886, all North American tracks were capable of running locomotives built for standard 4 ft 8-1/2 inch rails.
    Impressive tunnels, bridges and viaducts were also designed and constructed to carry trains over stunning views of open water or above valley floors between steep mountain cliffs.  With the need for better materials, wrought iron rail was produced in England by 1820.  Following this, steel in America became available in the mid-1800s with the process improved in England by 1860.   
    Naturally, the feasibility of a transcontinental track came under discussion and planning for several years before it became reality.  With the Pacific Railway Act of 1862 under President Lincoln, healing began for a war-torn nation as the north and south pulled together in a common goal after the Civil War.  The idea alone of a main railroad line from one ocean to the other across an entire continent was exhilarating!  As the Central Pacific Railroad toiled westward over the plains and up the eastern Rockies, the Union Pacific laid its track eastward out of California, over and through the western side of the Rockies. 
    Meeting at Promontory Summit in Utah on May 10, 1869, the Golden Spike was nailed into the track in an exciting celebration.  In honor of the occasion, the Union Pacific’s No. 119 and the Central Pacific’s No. 60 (Jupiter) steam locomotives met face-to-face with a single railroad tie width between them. 
    This event was the conclusion of several years’ worth of investment in time spent planning, designing, and hard physical labor of laying track.  Many an immigrant, particularly the Irish and Chinese, found work in this venture.  Across the plains and through tunnels blasted out of the seemingly impassable Rocky Mountains, the rails moved inexorably toward each other with much of the original roadbed still in use today. 
    The meeting of tracks created a transcontinental railroad connecting innumerable side tracks and spurs from all across the nation.  It was where the east met the west, no longer necessitating travel for months by wagon train from the Mississippi River to the Oregon Trail and points along the west coast.  Nor did it require a lengthy sail by ship through dangerous seas around the horn of South America to reach our nation’s western lands.  
    Closer to home, 20 miles south of us, Sayre, Pennsylvania housed the extensive Lehigh Valley rail yard.  Completed by 1904, it held the second largest factory of its kind in the world.  Large cranes were in place to lift a locomotive and move it anywhere.  With nearly everyone in Sayre working in one way or another for the railroad, it’s been said that the huge factories were noted for building or rebuilding one steam locomotive every day during peak production.  In fact, between 1913 and 1921, the factories at Sayre built over 40 K-class locomotives.  (The History of the Lehigh Valley Railroad, p.181.)  I would love to see a museum to the local railroad industry built there.

    Along with a growing railroad industry came the need of medical services for injured railroad workers. Robert Packer Hospital, established with railroad money, was named for Robert, son of Asa Packer who was the director of Lehigh Valley Railroad.  The hospital’s adjoining Guthrie Clinic was modeled after Rochester, Minnesota’s Mayo Clinic.  Donald Guthrie, MD, a graduate of Mayo, was appointed Superintendant and Surgeon-in-Chief of Guthrie Clinic (which is named in his honor), taking up his position in January 1910.
    Headquartered in New York City, the Lehigh Valley Railroad made an obvious impact on our region’s economy.  Begun as the Lehigh Coal and Navigation Company in the 1820s, it once held a monopoly in the mining and transporting of coal.  In order to break its monopoly, the Delaware, Lehigh, Schuylkill & Susquehanna Railroad was incorporated in 1846.  In 1853, under Asa Packer’s expert management, this mouthful of a company name became known simply as the Lehigh Valley Railroad.   One of its passenger trains, the Black Diamond Express, with an Atlantic 4-4-2 locomotive, held quite a reputation.  Known as the “Route of the Black Diamond” (named for the clean-burning anthracite coal it carried), the track ran from New York City, west through New Jersey to Easton, Pennsylvania, northwest past Wilkes-Barre and through numerous switchbacks to climb the mountains on its trip northwest to Sayre, Pennsylvania, then into New York by going north to Van Etten, northwest to Geneva, and finally west to Buffalo. 
    Beginning in 1876, the Lehigh Valley Railroad “took control of the newly reorganized Geneva, Ithaca, and Sayre Railroad, started by Ezra Cornell of Ithaca.  The famous university that he founded in 1865 would fill regular and special trains with college students and their families for decades.  Special excursion trains were often set up with tiered-bleacher seating on flat cars for passengers to watch crew races on Cayuga Lake as the train kept abreast of the scullers. (History of the Lehigh Valley Railroad, p.126)  The line to Geneva provided the Lehigh Valley a means to construct their own line into Buffalo, but its grade out of Ithaca to Geneva was too steep for heavy freight trains to travel.  A diverging route was planned from Van Etten (then known as Van Ettenville) to Geneva along the east side of Seneca Lake.  In 1892, the new bypass was open and the line was also completed from Geneva to Buffalo.  The original route from Van Etten to Geneva via Ithaca was now used for passenger trains and local freights.” 
    With a new luxury train scheduled for its first run on May 18, 1896, the Lehigh Valley Railroad ran a contest to name the train.  With over 35,000 entries received, the winner was Charles Montgomery, a hotel clerk from Toledo, Ohio.  His submission, Black Diamond Express, “was considered most befitting the premier train of a railroad whose history and revenues were so closely intertwined with anthrocite.”  [The History of the Lehigh Valley Railroad, p.152]
    “Running from New York City to Buffalo, the Black Diamond was promoted as a train of luxury.  The 315-foot long train was the fastest in their fleet.  The Black Diamond had chefs on board who were skilled in culinary arts.  Complete kitchens had every facility present for ‘preparing and serving substantials and delicacies in most appetizing fashion.’  Day coaches were outfitted with plush velvet chairs, a large comfortable smoking room, and lavatories for both men and women.  The last car seated 28 passengers and included a parlor and an observation platform.  It was equipped with plate glass windows at the rear and wicker chairs for passenger pleasure.  Touted by the Lehigh Valley as ‘The Handsomest Train in the World,’ the roadbed it traveled soon became known as “The Route of the Black Diamond.”  Because of its appeal to newlyweds on their way to Niagara Falls, the train was nicknamed the ‘Honeymoon Express.’”  (The Lehigh Valley Historical Society took much of its information from the book, The History of the Lehigh Valley Railroad, pp.152-153]
    Of course, accidents occurred for all railroads and the Lehigh Valley was no exception.  Its second worst passenger train wreck took place on August 25, 1911.  As the No.4 train headed east out of Buffalo, it derailed on the Canandaigua Outlet Bridge because of a broken rail.  One passenger car rolled over onto its side, while two others fell into the creek 40 feet below with 29 killed and 62 injured.
    Built in 1916, a 30-bay roundhouse and turntable just south of Manchester, NY was used by the Lehigh Valley Railroad to and from Buffalo.  With the train yard seeing a decline in freight traffic during the post-World War II era, its doors closed forever in 1970.  Once considered the largest in the world, the Manchester Yard employed over 1000 people during its peak years.  In the mid-1960s, my dad had taken us kids on a ride to see the train yards along the Jersey shore.  Touring a round house, I can still envision the locomotive inside as it was turned onto a different track.  Fascinating stuff!

    In the decades after World War II, as better and more modern means of transportation came onto the scene with trucks traveling over better paved roads and planes reaching distant destinations in only hours, the old trains and their tracks began disappearing.  Lehigh Valley passenger service also declined, ending with the Black Diamond Express making her final run with her sister train, Star, on May 11, 1959.
    As bigger and better locomotives were built throughout the latter 19th and early 20th centuries, record speeds were reached at or above 100 mph.  The first train ever to record a speed of 100 mph was the Empire State Express of the New York Central & Hudson River Railroad on May 9, 1893 on a run between Rochester and Buffalo, NY.  Great Britain’s famous Flying Scotsman hit 100 mph in 1934, while the British Mallard reached a record 126 mph pulling 245 tons in 1938.  Recently, on February 25, 2016, the Flying Scotsman returned to the tracks in England, fully restored.  Retired in 1963 when diesel engines took over, she spent a number of years pulling tourist trains along the western coast in the U.S. 
    Sandwiched in the years between two world wars, the largest steam locomotives were built in both America and Europe.  In the U.S., engines were often coupled together to provide strength for running with longer lines of loaded freight cars strung out behind, especially as they traversed the mountain passes of the western states.  Then, in the early 1940s, the American Locomotive Company (ALCO) in Schenectady, New York built 25 of the largest locomotives ever.  They were dubbed the “Big Boys,” intended for hauling freight over the western Wasatch Mountains.  These are the locomotives which had impressed my Dad while growing up as I mentioned in Part I.
    In August 2013, Union Pacific Big Boy Engine No. 4014 was prepared for return to the Union Pacific Steam Shop in Cheyenne, Wyoming from a Pomona, California museum.  Expected to begin its journey in April 2014, it was pulled by several modern locomotives.  Researching and writing this article in 2014, complete restoration would take place over the next several years to full working condition, with my son mentioning they converted the 4014’s engine to oil from coal burning.  An internet search of Big Boy No. 4014 will provide photos and videos of this magnificent locomotive. 
    Built in November 1941, and with restoration completed on May 1, 2019 after sitting idle for nearly sixty years since its last run in 1959, the Union Pacific 4014 doubleheaded an excursion with UP’s 844 on May 4, 2019.  Currently, 4014 operates an excursion service as “part of the Union Pacific’s heritage fleet.” (Wikipedia)  Due to the Covid-19 pandemic, excursions were canceled for 2020, but 4014 is expected to resume this service later in 2021.
    Over time, the amount of coal needed to fuel these big steam engines contributed to their demise.  In order to stay competitive with OTR (over-the-road) truck and plane transportation, diesel and electric locomotive engines were designed and implemented.  Germany’s Rudolph Diesel designed the first successful engine in 1897 which bears his name.  By 1912, the first successful German-built diesel locomotive was also in use.  Simply put, I learned that diesel operates differently by using an oil injection as compared to a gasoline-powered engine with spark plugs. 
    Freight cars in America have often been pulled by several locomotives coupled together, providing greater strength than a single engine.  Modern locomotives are designed with diesel engines and electric generators which help them reach top speed much quicker than a simple diesel engine alone.  Thus, the “world’s first streamlined diesel-electric [locomotive was] a Denver-Chicago express” which began running in 1934.  (The Great Book of Railways)
    With the invention of electricity, it wasn’t long before the great inventors put it to use in operating trains.  Electric trains are connected to an overhead electric wire/cable which provides power.  The first electric tram, designed by another German, Werner von Siemens, was on working display at the Berlin Trades Exhibition on May 31, 1879.  His brother, Sir William Siemens, settled in England and designed the first electric railroad which began running in 1883 in Northern Ireland.  It was not until 1890, however, that London’s first electric railway began operating in underground tunnels.  London’s Metropolitan Railway soon became the world’s first subway in 1863 by using underground steam trains.  Following these world firsts, America’s first electric railway was put to use in 1895 by the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad with electric locomotives pulling steam trains through tunnels under Baltimore, Maryland.  (The Great Book of Railways)
    And, of course, we also have subways and elevated rails which provide convenient transportation beneath and above city streets.  In the latter 20th century, travel by traditional passenger train declined.  There are, however, some passenger lines still in operation, including scenic excursions, just as there are freight lines providing an important transportation option.  Locally, we can watch a freight train pass through Van Etten and Spencer as it makes its way to and from the Cayuga power plant north of Ithaca, NY.  I enjoy the days when we can clearly hear its whistle and the sound of the heavy engines and cars clicking and creaking over the rails as it passes through our community, reminding us of the halcyon days of active rail travel.
    At the end of every freight train was the red caboose.  These cars were used until safety laws were relaxed in 1980 at which time improved safety monitoring devices were implemented.  Cabooses provided shelter and cooking facilities for the crew who were needed to switch or shunt a train or individual cars onto another track.  This was dangerous work as men could become injured or run over when coupling or uncoupling the cars.  The crew also kept an eye out for any shifting of loads in the cars, or damage to equipment and freight, or axles that might be overheating.  The cupola on top helped them keep an eye out for problems on the track or with the cars. 
    The railroads provided a whole new way of life with many associated occupations, a pride that came with working on the railroad, and a faster way to travel from here to there for quite some time.  We gaze up at those old locomotives, fascinated with their powerful size and the skill of the engineers running them.  Railroads had a major impact on the growth of our nation, including businesses and efficient rapid transportation of goods and people.  As we noted above, the railroad companies were even the impetus behind establishing standard time. 
    Scattered around the U.S. are many old steam locomotives available for excursion rides, along with several train museums to showcase and remember “the way it was”.  
    Simply put, railroads were a vital component to America’s way of life.  When railroad companies began closing, it was the end to a way of life that had grown more modern in new ways…  It was the end of an era.
    One of my favorites sung by Arlo Guthrie says it all, “The City of New Orleans”, written by Steve Goodman:
    Riding on the City of New Orleans
    Illinois Central Monday morning rail
    Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders
    Three conductors and twenty-five sacks of mail.
    All along the southbound odyssey
    The train pulls out at Kankakee
    Rolls along past houses, farms and fields
    Passin' trains that have no name
    Freight yards full of old black men
    And the graveyards of the rusted automobiles.
    Good morning America, how are you?
    Say, don't you know me? I'm your native son
    I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans
    I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
    Dealin' card games with the old men in the club car
    Penny a point ain't no one keepin' score
    Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
    Feel the wheels rumblin' 'neath the floor
    And the sons of pullman porters
    And the sons of engineers
    Ride their father's magic carpets made of steel
    Mothers with their babes asleep
    Are rockin' to the gentle beat
    And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel.
    Good morning America, how are you?
    Say, don't you know me? I'm your native son
    I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans
    I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
    Nighttime on the City of New Orleans
    Changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee
    Half way home, we'll be there by morning
    Through the Mississippi darkness
    Rolling down to the sea
    But all the towns and people seem
    To fade into a bad dream
    And the steel rail still ain't heard the news
    The conductor sings his songs again
    The passengers will please refrain
    This train got the disappearing railroad blues.
    Good night, America, how are you?
    Say, don't you know me? I'm your native son
    I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans
    I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done…
    ~~
    Linda Roorda writes from her home in Spencer. 
  16. Linda Roorda
    Even those of us blessed to grow up in a church may go through a time of searching, especially in our younger days.  We search for fun, happiness, joy, peace and love in many places and in many ways… and sometimes we search in vain… for what we don’t know.  Been there… done that, right?!  But did you know that our hearts are born to seek?  All the while we grow up and mature, we’re seeking and learning, trying to find our place and priorities in this great big world.
    We wonder if our life makes a difference.  Does anyone care?  What is our value, and how is it measured?  To prove our worth, we may seek wealth, fame, praise, prestige, power… and often think we’ve found it in relationships and possessions.  In reality, our search for true peace and joy has nothing to do with these things.  That’s where the world finds its value. 
    So, we carry on, as our hearts continually seek something better to fill the void in our soul.  In reality, we’re “lookin’ for love in all the wrong places” as the song says.  (“Looking for love” sung by Johnny Lee, written by Wanda Mallette, Patti Ryan and Bob Morrison; 1980 movie “Urban Cowboy.”)
    And we keep searching until we realize the something that’s missing is ultimately only found in our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.  “But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.”  (Matthew 6:33)  For God created us and put within our hearts a longing for Him… because, as our creator, He desires to have a close relationship with us.  He wants us to give up our futile searching.  He wants us to give up the world’s false security, our pride, and our faith in all the petty trinkets which hold no eternal value… to gain something far more valuable when we put Him first in our lives.
    As we search for God and focus on Him and His love for us, we find that the Apostle Paul’s words “…I no longer live, but Christ lives in me,” say it all.  (Galatians 2:20)  For as we seek His will in our lives, we discover that our purpose, our joy and our peace, can come only from God.  Like C. S. Lewis wrote in “The Problem of Pain” … “God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains.” 
    In seeking and finding our Lord, it’s then that the void in our heart and soul is filled… with a peace that only God can give.  Our eyes are opened and we see the Lord’s loving hand working through us as we become more like Him… especially, it seems, through the toughest of times.  For so often, that’s when our faith grows deeper as we draw closer to our Lord, and rest in His comforting words of wisdom… and His loving embrace.
    After teaching His disciples to pray, Jesus said, "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” (Luke 11:9)  As I searched… I found.
    I Searched By Linda A. Roorda
    In vain I searched the corners of life
    As my heart yearned for what it did not know
    But might it be the world cannot give
    The depth of peace as You hold my soul.
    ~
    In pleasures I searched for the hint of fun
    The best this world could ever offer
    But disillusioned it caught me up short
    When softly I heard Your voice fill the void.
    ~
    In hope I searched for one to carry
    For I had fallen from heights I had claimed
    Then helped was I by a tender soul
    One filled with grace from mercy’s blessed store.
    ~
    In silence I searched away from life’s noise
    Seeking Your voice in solitude’s calm
    Within my prayers Your words then echoed
    As You called to me in a still small voice.
    ~
    In forest I searched midst towering trees
    For there was I enveloped by peace
    And as the sun broke through the dark depths
    It mirrored the Son whose light pierced my soul.
    ~
    In valleys I searched along gentle streams
    Till gazing upward to towering peaks
    Majestic splendor was captured in view
    Of stunning vistas, creation’s glory.
    ~
    In faces I searched Your image to find
    Those with a heart of compassion true
    The humble and meek without prideful boast
    Till one in tatters lent a hand to me.
    ~
    In faith I searched for the living truth
    Of One whose claims have captured my heart
    For my soul was cleansed when You took my place
    Lifting me up to heights of Your love.
    ~
    In children I searched for innocence sweet
    The gift of love not lost in their eyes
    Like arms open wide are their hearts and souls
    Freely they give without asking more.
    ~
    In love I searched for the best in You
    Someone to hold and treasure for life
    To carry my dreams on the wings of time
    As ever I cling to faith, hope and love.
    ~
    With joy I found all this and more
    As my heart sang out its praises of You
    For is it not true that blessings are mine
    From the depth of peace as You hold my soul.
    ~~
  17. Linda Roorda
    Recently, I’ve seen several memes quoting, “History is not there for you to like or dislike; it is there for you to learn from it.  And if it offends you, even better, because then you are less likely to repeat it.  History is not yours to erase or destroy.  Teach that to your children.”
    In an editorial, Dianna Greenwood penned, “that doesn’t mean we tear the monument down or run around crying about how it victimizes us.  Instead use them as teaching tools, to tell the current and next generations about a time in history we do not want to return to.”  It means teaching our history, the good and the bad.  As the author of “1984” and “Animal House”, George Orwell affirmed “The most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history.” 
    Yet we mock, delegitimize or destroy aspects of history. We want our way despite what others may think.  It’s been said to me, “please tell me you’re not going to vote for _____.”  The old give-and-take attitude seems to be lacking... all too evident among those who mock or belittle, especially within today’s world of politics… where a war of words continues to erupt, and people are canceled.  It seems absolute truth and moral or ethical standards have become a negative, a cause for ridicule or derision… while relativism, or determining our own truth as we want it to be, is more often revered. 
    Authors like Laura Ingalls Wilder, Mark Twain/Samuel Clemens (and even Dr. Seuss) have become suspect, apparently not worth our reading in today’s political correctness.  They, like so many others, wrote about the way life was as they experienced it while walking upon this earth, something we can learn from.  The Wilder Award in literature has been renamed the Children’s Literature Legacy Award because Wilder used words from a different era, inappropriate for today.  We were appalled at censorship, banning and burning of books many years ago, but even now we walk a fine line of what is appropriate.  Rather than using it as a learning experience, we disallow our children to read of life in other times when words or language we now recognize as inappropriate were used. Even our Holy Bible is often considered unacceptable because it might offend… despite its containing the best standards to live our life by.
    As discerning parents, we did not allow our children to read a few specific books in high school with blatant promiscuous sex and distortion of family values.  We discussed why the books were inappropriate reading material with our children and school staff.  We were told by the principal that, because we calmly explained our objections, the school graciously saw our valid points and gave alternative reading material.  In Jenn’s case, after giving one particular oral book report, a few classmates told her they wished they’d read that book instead of the original proffered book.  A true story, her book showed a quality of character in the challenges a young man faced as an Olympian runner diagnosed with cancer.  Unable to compete, he turned to helping inner city under-privileged kids.  A great life example!
    The book read by the rest of the class, however, was filled with gratuitous sex, filthy language, and mocking of parental/family values – found when I simply opened the book at random junctures.  In actuality, the teacher told his students to seek their parents’ permission to read that book.  Apparently, if other students showed it to their parents like Jenn, we were the only ones who said, “no way!”  Even the school board was shocked to learn what that book held.  It was pulled from the school’s required reading list, and the teacher complimented us on our stance, saying he learned a lot from us.  There truly is a time for discernment of right and wrong when done with respect.  I was later told by a parent how much she agreed with and respected me for doing this, but was hesitant to take the public stand I had. I understand.
    My poem below began to flow with news of the violence and destruction of our nation’s historical monuments in the summer of 2017 and since.  Removing such historical memorials does not erase or change history… except for the younger generations who never learn its truths.  There are lessons learned in those memories earned.  We’ve come so far.  We’ve grown in understanding and acceptance.  We are not perfect as individuals or as a nation, but isn’t that cause for celebration rather than erasure?  Our differences can be teachable moments.  That’s what Freedom of Speech is all about… a chance to show love and respect even in expressing disagreement, revealing true tolerance, not denigrating or canceling someone just because you don’t like their stance or voting intention.
    Tolerance, by definition, is an ability to be fair, to accept a viewpoint which is different, and to realize that the opposition also has rights… without approving wrong by our silence or going into full rage when disagreeing with the alternative view.  Perhaps we remember that society’s Golden Rule (which promotes tolerance when you think about it), actually comes from the words of Jesus in his Sermon on the Mount:  “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the law…” (Matthew 7:12a)
    Nor is tolerance a license to do anything we want at will.  A moral society adheres to absolute truths of right and wrong, or it breaks down without this solid foundation… as we see with preferential treatment of criminals being put back out on the street where they too often commit more crimes… because they were not held responsible and accountable for their prior criminal acts.
    We can be cognizant and tolerant of others’ opinions or beliefs, respecting our differences… but that does not mean we tolerate rude or foul language, or abusive, bullying, or violent and criminal behavior.  Tolerance is not freedom to persist in traveling down a wrong path.  There are consequences for everything we do... and there is a time and place for speaking out respectfully against what we disagree with, or against inappropriate words or actions. 
    So where did tolerance go?  Too often it seems tolerance is relegated to that which accepts and promotes a particular politically-correct agenda to the exclusion and canceling of the opposing view and person… not appreciating a respectful explanation… putting others into that so-called “basket of deplorables.”
    What happened to our ability to show respect through appropriate discussion and explanation of one’s viewpoint? What happened to Freedom of Speech? Why the hate-filled, foul-worded, and/or disparaging language?  Why violence with riots and destruction, or angry rhetoric to disallow conservative or religious speakers, even on college campuses where all perspectives are supposed to be welcomed?  What is there to be afraid of… that others might actually have valid points of truth, different from your own perspective and agenda, promoting a deeper thought process?
    Fear of a differing opinion by engaging in anger and wrath toward that with which one disagrees serves no viable purpose.  We have heard mobs calling for their rights or else violence will ensue… while proclaiming how tolerant and justified they are!  Seems to me that violence as a coercive bully tactic is anything but tolerance.  Perhaps it would be wise to observe that true tolerance… the courtesy to listen, agreeing to disagree in appropriate discourse… comes by respecting another’s viewpoint, their freedom of speech, without the backlash of vitriolic speech and/or destructive violence.
    When morality and true tolerance steps up and extends a hand in respect, we’re living out the ancient Ten Commandments (Exodus 20:1-17).  Given by God to Moses for the Jewish nation during its exodus from centuries of Egyptian slavery, these words still serve us well as a moral foundation for life even in today’s modern society.  Doing our best to live out Jesus’ words, we show great love and respect for others… “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you…” (Matthew 7:12 NIV) – just as we wish to be treated.  With this love, and acceptance of those with whom we disagree, we embody Christ’s love, for “love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth.”  (I Corinthians 13:6 NIV)
    Tolerance by Linda A. Roorda
    Could I but live a life that was safe
    I wouldn’t question differences encountered.
    I would not wrestle with problems I face
    Or troubles inherent with consequent strife.
    ~
    For if I the bad from this life expunged
    I’d then have left the best for display.
    My life would exist by my design
    For my benefit and pleasure alone.
    ~
    Remove the memories and mask the failures
    Fashion the remains to what I deem fit.
    Let visible be selfish ambition
    My life according to myself and me.
    ~
    I have no tolerance for views but mine
    My way is right and suspect is yours.
    I demand my way and fight you I will
    If only to prove entitled am I.
    ~
    Yet what I now see is your hand held out
    Bearing a gift, tolerance by name.
    You’ve come to my aid and lift me up
    To help me stand with dignity tall.
    ~
    There’s a price, you see, for this freedom shared
    It’s a cost in red that flowed for us all.
    And it grants relief from oppression’s fist
    That your words and mine comingle in peace.
    ~~
  18. Linda Roorda
    With school either having started for some, or about to start for others, I pondered the realization that there was so much I thought I knew when younger, but really didn’t… for education isn’t only that which is gained in a classroom.  Over the years, I’ve learned I can’t turn the clock back to undo or redo what’s been done.  Life doesn’t have a rewind button for our editing... so we inevitably move forward in a relentless flow of time. 
    And in that flow, learning becomes an emotional and spiritual educational process as disappointments and suffering soften our hearts amidst the joys.  This is how we mature and become wiser.  In the process, we learn that we may not get that second chance. Make amends now… apologize, forgive and move forward.  Love one another… and let the other know it.  I have searched for and regained friends from years ago… friends I’d lost when moving away, friends lost when my childish words took their toll, and to whom I’ve given heart-felt apologies.  I cannot undo, but I can atone for and correct my wrongs.
    Walk away from sin… don’t let it overtake you with its tempting appeal.  The great Ten Commandments really do have something to say to us today.  Stop blaming someone else.  Don’t condone or excuse the habit of lying, concealing your wrongs to protect yourself.  Even if no one else is the wiser, God knows.  Own it, confess it, and make amends.  Others do take notice of what we do… do it well, for a good name is much to be treasured.  Love, listen, take advice gladly, and learn… you won’t go wrong.  “Be very careful, then, how you live… making the most of every opportunity…”  (Ephesians 4:15-16)
    As we look back, we often wish we knew then what we know now. Wouldn’t such knowledge have saved us a whole basket of trouble?!  But did we hear, did we listen, did we truly heed the advice given as we grew up?  I’m afraid I didn’t always do so.  I thought I “knew it all” in my teens.  It took time as life traversed a variety of circumstances unique to my needs to gain understanding and knowledge with wisdom from God.  And from the realization of my own errant ways and words, I apologized and made amends… because the Lord has done so much more for me.
    For the loving Father that He is, God took the time to teach me all through the years.  Because I was often not listening to wiser words in my youth, I now treasure the wisdom of others as I sit at their feet to learn, recalling fragmented words of wisdom expressed years ago.
    Blessed with Godly wisdom, Solomon wrote in Proverbs 2:1-6: “My son, if you accept my words and store up my commands within you, turning your ear to wisdom and applying your heart to understanding, and if you call out for insight and cry aloud for understanding, and if you look for it as for silver and search for it as for hidden treasure, then you will understand the fear of the Lord and find the knowledge of God.  For the Lord gives wisdom, and from his mouth come knowledge and understanding.”  And vs. 9 adds, “Then you will understand what is right and just and fair – every good path.”  Oh, how true!
    If only… that age-old phrase we all quote... if only I knew then what I know now.  So, let me take what the Lord has taught me through the difficult struggles to reach a satisfied contentment… through tears of deep sorrow to tears of great joy with laughter’s healing touch.  And may we use the blessings He’s bestowed upon our hearts to reach out in love with something we’ve learned…
    Something I’ve Learned by Linda A. Roorda
    ~
    Something I’ve learned since I was young…
    If I knew then what I do know now
    I’d have been spared life’s toughest lessons.
    But, then again, how else would I learn?
    ~
    Something I’ve learned came slowly with time…
    For I wanted life to move fast forward
    And in wanting more, I just needed less
    As contentment dwells in life’s simplest gifts.
    ~
    Something I’ve learned by looking backward…
    That in facing life I thought I knew all,
    But looking forward from slow motion days
    Impatience revealed an unsettled heart.
    ~
    Something I’ve learned wishing I’d discerned…
    By heeding then the sage’s wisdom
    Who’d lived and seen what I could not fathom
    For experience marks the role of teacher.
    ~
    Something I’ve learned is not easy to say…
    That which I rue when youth went its way
    As lessons learned brought maturity’s wealth
    With understanding through wisdom’s trained eye.
    ~
    Something I’ve learned by climbing the hill…
    Conquering hurdles that hindered my path,
    For stones that seemed like unmoving boulders,
    Were mere stumbling blocks to peace found in You.
    ~
    Something I’ve learned I treasure now more…
    My faith in You, Lord, once taken for granted
    Its value gained from bumps in the road
    Which led me to where I stand on Your Word.
    ~
    Something I’ve learned we all have to face…
    Sorrow and loss have taught to accept
    That which was healed as my heart grew wise
    For only from pain can compassion speak.
    ~
    Something I’ve learned about all my stuff…
    I can’t take it there on the day that I leave
    Much better by far to share with you now
    Showing my love in tangible ways.
    ~
    Something I’ve learned that when the door shuts…
    Reasons there are for not looking back.
    Express regret for what’s done is done
    Then welcome the door He flings open wide.
    ~
    Something I’ve learned with You at my side…
    To share the bounty of blessings divine
    To gently speak with a tender voice
    And to hear with love from a generous heart.
    ~~
  19. Linda Roorda
    We often find peace in a quiet place of rest whether it be our church Sanctuary or outdoors in nature.  There, alone, unencumbered by life’s trappings, we can meditate on and seek our Lord in prayer.  Away from the hustle and bustle of life’s busyness and grueling schedules, we can focus our thoughts and attention as we pray for God’s wisdom and for blessings upon our family and friends.  Because we are so like those sheep that David settled down to rest in peaceful green pastures, we can meet our Shepherd there for His guidance and restoration.
    With a simple prayer in such peaceful solitude, I’m reminded of how often Jesus sought a quiet place to pray.  Away from the noisy crowds, He met His heavenly Father alone to pour out His heart.  Asking for His simple needs to be met, He also prayed that those with heavy burdens would find peace by relinquishing their cares to the very capable hands of God. 
    From the beginning of his ministry, Jesus sought a quiet place to get away from life’s busy pace and demands, to think and pray to His heavenly Father.  Like Mark 1:35 tells us, “very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed.”  Shortly afterward, his disciples found him; together they went off into the synagogues and villages to preach and serve the needs of the people.  “Yet the news about him spread all the more, so that crowds of people came to hear him and to be healed of their sicknesses.  But Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.”  (Luke 5:15-16)  Another time, after sending his disciples ahead to the next town by boat, and dismissing the crowd of people, “…he went up on a mountainside to pray.”  (Mark 6:46b)
    If quiet time was needed by our Lord to pray and restore his energy… to refresh his soul during hectic days of ministry… how much more do we need that time alone?  I know I tend to forget that, often uttering prayers-on-the-run so to speak.  Jesus went off by himself to grieve when His cousin, John the Baptist, was beheaded.  He spent time alone to contemplate important issues in His ministry.  And He prayed for hours when facing his arrest and death on the cross.  All fitting examples for situations we face that are both simple and complex.
    There is a peace I find in my quiet place… sitting in my gardens among nature’s blessings of flowers and birds… listening to the sweet chirping of busy birds, watching dainty butterflies flutter by, and watching the creek below our ridge on its endless flow… for in the midst of His creation, I feel God’s presence.  How appropriate that our risen Lord was found in a garden that first Easter morning!  To my garden I often go to pray, think a situation through, and hear the Lord’s wisdom in His still small voice within my heart.  In my garden, a respite from life’s hectic pace, I find a peaceful solitude, and come away feeling refreshed and restored.  How about you?
    A Peaceful Solitude
    Linda A. Roorda
    There is a place where I long to rest
    A place of quiet and contemplative peace
    A placid harbor, restoring my soul
    Where the Lord I meet in solitude still.
    ~
    A place of rest my cares to release
    Where storms of life meet the Calmer of Waves
    With prayers of faith and trust in His will
    As I’m safely held in the palm of His hand.
    ~
    For soothing comfort and solace is found
    Near to the heart of our gracious Lord
    Feeling His presence all along the way
    As He takes my fears to comfort with peace.
    ~~
     
  20. Linda Roorda

    Once Upon A Day

    By Linda Roorda,

    Sitting in my East Garden a while ago, I absorbed the warm sunny rays while viewing the garden’s fading beauty, enjoying the colorful zinnias now more beautiful with recent cooler days and refreshing rain, gazing out beyond the garden proper to encompass the yard, our house, and the road beyond… listening to the golfers’ chatter and excited shouts of joy... spying birds flutter among the hidden branches above, hearing their gentle twitters – tuhweet, tuhweet… watching a gentle breeze stir the branches and leaves above me and beyond… remembering the many years that have passed us by, 40 to be exact, since we moved into our new house… thinking of all the good times and the difficult days that entered our lives… and so very thankful for the blessings of home and family.
    Like the tiny seed in my poem that was once upon a day planted with so much hope held within the task, to the joy it brings on seeing and touching the beauty in full array as it reaches its zenith… so it has been in our lives.  Among blessings more than we take the time to count, our precious little ones have grown up from being nestled in our arms, absorbing our love and attention, building the foundation on which to stand while testing their wings, flying all too soon out into the great big world to find their own way…
    And that growth, that wisdom, which they eagerly absorbed into their hearts and minds, came into their lives as we parents tried to follow the wisdom from our creator, our Lord God above.  “Train up a child in the way he should go, And even when he is old he will not depart from it.” (Proverbs 22:6) 
    It is He who has established and numbered our days.  “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” (Proverbs 139:13-16)
    It is God who has blessed us with our many talents and wisdom. James, the brother of Jesus, describes such wisdom from God as, "the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere." (James 3:17)
    It is the same God who guides us as we seek our way along this life’s journey... though sometimes we take the reins until we recognize God’s greater wisdom is really the wiser portion, for “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.” (Psalm 119:105)
    Our pathway might be smooth or it may be rocky, strewn with one obstruction or hurdle after another… all part of what matures and teaches us, giving us a deeper understanding of life, empathy and insight to support others facing a similar storm… as we turn for peace and comfort in God lest we become arrogant, thinking we alone know best.  King Solomon reminded us so long ago to “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 NIV)  Or, as the King James Version says, …”and He shall direct thy paths.”
    But we so easily forget and take charge of those reins… only to realize later that we need to return to the true source of wisdom once again. Though Solomon wrote down his profoundly wise words centuries ago, granted to him by God through prayer on becoming king when his father died, he encourages us in our walk of life today.  “The proverbs of Solomon son of David, king of Israel: for gaining wisdom and instruction; for understanding words of insight; for receiving instruction in prudent behavior, doing what is right and just and fair; for giving prudence to those who are simple, knowledge and discretion to the young -- let the wise listen and add to their learning, and let the discerning get guidance -- for understanding proverbs and parables, the sayings and riddles of the wise. The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge, but fools despise wisdom and instruction. (Proverbs 1:1-7)
    And thus we see how blessed we’ve been when looking back…acknowledging how God has led us all the days of our lives… guiding us when we didn’t even realize it… using the difficulties to teach us wisdom for the future… making our paths straight for His purpose…  What an awesome God we serve!!
    Once Upon A Day
    by Linda A. Roorda
    Once upon a day a seed was planted
    Just a tiny seed, held gently in hand
    The soil was tilled and the seed tucked in
    Patiently waiting its growth to begin.
    ~
    As the rains commenced and the sun shone warm
    The seed emerged from protective shell,
    And with firm foundation of sturdy roots
    Its tender leaves burst into the light.
    ~
    While storms blew fierce it held on firm
    Tightly gripping its feet in the soil
    Its tender stem and each tiny leaf
    Were gently swaying, dancing to the tune.
    ~
    Despite the tempest our plant stood tall
    It weathered the storm for its roots went deep
    Our plant knew its purpose, the unswerving truth
    And humbly displayed character unbent.
    ~
    And so with us as we arrive at birth
    Helpless and feeble, but eager to grow
    Nourished in love with foundation deep
    We mature to face the storms of life.
    ~
    Though we might break without firm support
    And may wander down destruction’s lane
     Yet often it’s from our mistakes that we learn
    The wisdom of God planted deep in our soul.
    ~~
    Linda Roorda writes from her home in Spencer. 
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