Destiny: Path to the Future

Way back before I became a typesetter, one of my more rewarding jobs was a seven-year stint as church secretary at my church in my Kansas college town. Previous jobs as store clerk and card assembler had not taken advantage of my heretofore unacknowledged clerical skills, and I took to the full-time position of executive secretary, as they say, like a duck to water.

This was in 1958, and confidence in my skills and talents was still a work in progress. The pastor of the church was a joy to work for, always clear in what he needed done, and regularly praised my work.

One of the lasting legacies I left to that church was a library. From the pastor and the parishioners, I came to an understanding of various books that would be helpful to everyone. Quite a few of the flock were not financially able to purchase many books, and I saw the need for a church library. I researched titles, and encouraged the church leaders to purchase them for a library. We started with a small 3-shelf bookcase, and when I left seven years later, the library covered one whole wall of the office.

Mary Gordon, in “The Winds Were Warm, Then Bitter,” said of the decade beginning with 1958: “the world changed from a place of security to a place of insecurity, of certainties cherished to uncertainties demanding to be witnessed.” And so it was with myself. I came into this era from a loving home and a rural upbringing on the plains of Kansas, with a naivete that viewed the world as safe and uncomplicated. As the late 50s and early 60s progressed, I and my peers suffered the onslaught of racial violence, war that was called something else, and, on November 22, 1963, the assassination of our 35th president, John F. Kennedy. Not having encountered racial prejudice firsthand, I was stunned at the television news of race riots and controversy. I could not imagine why anyone was refused service, lodging, or a certain school because of their color. I had thought that was something in the distant past.

In 1965, my church wanted to send me as their delegate to the World Convention of Churches in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Now, keep in mind I had never traveled outside the United States, had never flown in a commercial airplane, actually had not traveled anywhere without parents or husband in control. It would be a 10-day excursion; I would have vouchers for all the tours, airplane and hotel expenses would be paid by my church. With a big gulp of apprehension, I decided to go.

I could sign up to room with other ladies attending the convention, which would reduce the expense, and being a frugal gal, I did so, wanting to minimize the cost to my church. I also thought it would be more fun than staying by myself in a strange city, not to mention a strange country. The two ladies I was assigned were from South Carolina. We corresponded briefly to get a bit acquainted.

Even though I was 30 years old, I was still quite bashful, and this adventure was way out of my comfort zone. I agonized about the possibility of getting mugged, losing my vouchers and tickets, or getting lost somewhere along the way. Making my way through the Miami International Airport was an education in itself. After I started spotting other church people I recognized from events at my church, I relaxed somewhat. Arrival in Puerto Rico was amazingly uneventful, as local church members had arranged transportation from airport to hotel.

These were the days when one was escorted to one’s room by a bellhop, who brought your luggage. He showed me where everything was and how it worked. (Perhaps I had no familiarity with a flushing commode?) He presented a map of the hotel, pointing out the pool, snack bar, restaurant, and convention rooms. After adjusting the drapes and wishing me a pleasant stay, the young man departed.

After unpacking my belongings, my roommates not having arrived yet, I decided to don my swimsuit and investigate the pool, being an avid swimmer. With towel and key in hand and heading for the door, I heard a commotion outside. Thinking it was my roommates, I immediately opened the door to welcome them.

The tableau in the hall was straight out of a movie. The wild-eyed bellhop was frantically (hysterically?) babbling to the two ladies that he had made a mistake and had brought them to the wrong room. He would take them, please! please! to the correct room if they would just come with him--come now! please! In between words he would lapse into Spanish. As I appeared, my roommates, still smiling bravely, said their names, I said mine, and we fell into an embrace of welcome. I say to the bellhop, it’s all right, this is their room. Thank you very much. I offer a tip. (I was fast learning the ways of travel.

I thought the bellhop was going to faint dead away. His eyes were as round as the proverbial saucers, his hands fluttered as if he wanted to fly away. He wouldn’t take the tip. He finally turned and ran, yes, RAN! away down the corridor.

You see, it was 1965. My roommates were black. He had brought two black ladies to a room where he had just ensconced a white lady. This was Puerto Rico, he knew the ways of the United States. It was not done.

My roommates and I quickly settled down for a get-acquainted visit. We had a few chuckles over our bellhop, and wondered if he had just kept going, never to return to his job. Through subsequent conversations with my new friends, I discovered, to my consternation, they frequently encountered such.

We were staying at the convention hotel, the El San Juan, and it was very nice to just go downstairs for breakfast and the morning events. Various tours of San Juan and the area churches were available in the afternoons, and we could choose which to attend, but we had to take buses or taxis to the beginning point of each tour. We discovered the taxi fare was geared to distance only, regardless of how many people rode, so we would crowd in as many as possible to a destination, and split the fare among us.

One day, I choose one tour and my roommates another, and when the tour was over, I could not match up with folks going back to my hotel. Reluctant to pay the whole price for a taxi, I checked out the city buses waiting nearby. It appeared I could take a certain bus, change to another bus at a particular intersection, and thus reach my destination at a fraction of the taxi cost.

I dropped my coin in the slot, received a transfer slip for the next bus, and, in pill box hat, high heels, tailored suit (with 60s short skirt) and white gloves, convention badge pinned to my shoulder, I took my seat. I think I stood out. After all, I had no goats, chickens, or gaggle of giggling children on my lap. We arrived at the stop I thought was my transfer point, and I got off. There I stood, as bus after bus came by, none of which was going to the El San Juan. I queried one friendly-looking driver, who shook his head sadly, nada, no El San Juan. That same driver came by a couple more times, each time looking more troubled.

As minutes became 30, 40, an hour and a half, I began to get anxious. The sun was moving ominously closer to the horizon, and evening loomed. The concerned bus driver came by once more. He leaned out, called “El San Juan?” I nodded with a great deal of angst. He motioned for me to get on. I got on.

In short order various chicken-wielding passengers began to shout and point out the window. The bus was obviously off the regular route. In about 15 minutes, we pulled up in front of the El San Juan Hotel. Other bus drivers were calling and making funny remarks to my driver, who merely beamed a huge smile and helped me down the steps. I was so overwhelmed I hugged him. He drove off smiling with his buddies teasingly calling after him. I completely forgot to tip him.

At the end of the Convention, I headed home determined to share with my fellow churchmembers all that I had learned and experienced on this extraordinary sojourn. A special gathering had been planned on the Sunday after my return. My presentation included a big thank you for my trip, slides of San Juan and my roommates, a typewritten “speech,” and hand-outs. I was not accustomed to speaking in front of a group, but I had enormous momentum, fueled by my exciting participation in this event.

I sailed through my performance with aplomb. I was downright euphoric. I had done it. I had made it there and back, didn’t lose anything, attended every session, represented my home church with professional acumen, made notes, taken photos, met many interesting people, and shared it all with those at home.

This church group, with whom I had found myself for the previous seven years, were friendly and affectionate, and often we would hug when greeting each other at church. When we gathered in the church hall for punch and cookies after my Puerto Rico presentation, I expected more of the same.

To my total dismay and shock, those hugs, for the most part, were not forthcoming. In fact, several of my closest friends actually backed away, appearing embarrassed, but definitely not making contact.

To say I was stunned was the understatement of the year. I moved on through the group, accepting verbal accolades and answering the occasional questions about my trip, but I was wounded to my soul, confused as to why.

After a bit, it began to dawn on me. They saw the slides of my roommates. I had roomed with black people. I was contaminated. It was as if my home church “friends” thought something had rubbed off on me. Well, it had. My new friends from South Carolina had brought me a new understanding of the world we lived in, a world I had barely begun to comprehend. It was a hard truth.

The following week, it was back to work as usual. Sermons to type up, letters to write, Sunday bulletins to prepare. Meetings were held and the choir practiced. In a mere six weeks, my church was hosting the State Convention, so there was a lot to do to prepare. It came to me, the church secretary, to document the list of parishioners who were willing to house out-of-town attendees. A committee member came by with the lists to which the latest volunteers could be added. I stared down at the two sheets of paper on my desk. My heart thudded in my chest. It was as if part of my mind sailed away, unable to grasp the concept.

One list was parishioners who would accept all attendees. The other list was parishioners who would accept only whites.

I made it through the state convention. I could not bail out when there was so much to do. But in late October, 1965, I tendered my resignation. A long talk with the pastor, for whom I had great respect, helped me a great deal. I explained that I could no longer face those whom I felt had no right to call themselves Christians. He counseled that it was not for we mortals to judge others, and I understood that. He guided me to the understanding that none of us, church members or not, were perfect. I understood that. But still I had to go. I would find other avenues for my skills, other friends with whom to share my values.

Who knows where my skills would have led me had not this devastating revelation set the stage for a career change? I have come to not believe in coincidences. We are led in mysterious ways. There is a plan for each of us, our destiny, if you will, and we do not know in advance what it is. The choices we make along the way provide the path to the future, to the person we become. With a little luck, we may look back, and see the plan in action.

Walking Around the World

Some times you are just in the right place at the right time. In 2001, I was working in a nearby town, Port Lavaca, Texas. One morning in February I read a newspaper notice about a guy from Canada that had set out to walk around the world for peace, and would be coming through Port Lavaca that week. I spoke to my supervisor, Ana Pena, about it, hoping we could find time to at least see him as he passed through. Walking around the world! How in the world, so to speak, would that work???

Ana did some checking, and discovered he was camping overnight at the Lighthouse Beach RV Park. We tootled out there, and sure enough, there he was, with a tiny blue tent and a three-wheeled stroller to carry his stuff: a bit of food, his clothing, a first-aid kit, and a sleeping bag. His name was Jean Beliveau.

His native language was French, but he said his English had improved quite a bit by now. He had left Montreal, Canada, on August 18, 2000, traveling alone down the east coast of the United States, across the southern states, to Texas. He talked about his mission to promote peace and non-violence to the profit of the children of the world. Jean showed us his map of the world, depicting his projected route. He plans to walk across all the continents, from North America to South America, then across South Africa, up to Europe, then the Middle East, South and Eastern Asia, Australia, New Zealand, and finally back to Canada.

This journey will take 12 years to complete, which is in accordance with the United Nations proclamation: 2001-2010---International Decade for a Culture of Peace and Non-Violence.
Both Ana and I became totally entranced by his story. How he missed his family back home in Canada, and how he felt called to take on this mission. I thought, how can one man make any difference? His calmness and serenity impressed us. He was totally, how would you say it, totally modest and unassuming. The more we visited with him, the more I came to realize, he COULD make a difference—to one person at a time. He was making a difference in ME.

Ana arranged for him to speak the next afternoon to the school children at her church. Children of all ages listened intently to his talk, and clustered around him afterwards for autographs. One child had asked him how many shoes he had worn out. He told how people had donated new shoes when he needed them, and later a shoe company began donating shoes. She held up her foot for him to autograph her sneaker. He solemnly did so, then with that infectious smile of his, said a foot-signing was a first.

He was to head on south toward Mexico the next morning. I fretted a bit about whether he would be safe. There are sections of Mexico that are dangerous. Then I remembered: he had walked safely along the entire eastern coast of the United States, through Washington, D.C., and New York, to Florida (where he had to hole up with new friends to ride out a hurricane, then stayed several weeks to help clean up), then westward, through New Orleans and Houston. My angst began to ease up.

A few days later, I was still a bit distressed, worrying about his safety. Would he be OK in strange places and big cities? Where they spoke different languages, so many different cultures? In all extremes of weather? So alone he had looked, disappearing down the road.

That night, in my sleep, I dreamed about him. I saw him heading out from the park in Port Lavaca, heading for the rest of the world. In my dream, I saw him walking away down the highway, and he was totally enclosed in a large "bubble," three-wheeled stroller and all.
When I awoke, I was awestruck by the vividness of my dream. I knew immediately what the "bubble" represented: it was a sphere of safe-ness around him, generated by his essential goodness, the purity of his mission, and the best wishes and prayers of EVERYONE he meets! The farther he walks, the larger the "safe bubble" becomes, with the addition of each person's "God speed!" he receives.

I feel so blessed to have been in that place and that time, that February day in 2001, when Jean Beliveau came, literally, walking by. I do believe that one person can change the world. Jean is changing every one he comes in contact with. I thank his wife Luce for having the courage to share him with the world. I follow his progress around the world by logging on to www.wwwalk.org. It continues to be an amazing story. People of all cultures, from many, many countries, offer him shelter, serve him meals, buy him shoes, try to give him money. He refuses gifts of money, saying, with a wry grin, it would be dangerous.

Then he tells the story of what must have been a mugging in New York by what he calls "young toughs." He said they "roughed him up," and went through his belongings and threw them about. As they ambled off, they tossed back a derogatory assessment, "Hey man, you no got any good stuff!"

If they only knew.

Blazing Prairies and Canning Carrots

I read something the other day about our sense of smell--that the intensity of the memory is tied to the emotion you experienced at the time you first smelled it, be it fear, love, comfort, or safety.

And so it is. I get a whiff of smoke from a grass fire, and instantly I’m 10 years old again!

I grew up on the Kansas prairie, in the midst of oil fields. My father was what they called a pumper. Once an area of wells were drilled, someone was required to take care of them and keep them working. Each area would have a pump house, with an engine to run rod lines that connected to each well. These rod lines were moved back and forth by the engine in the pump house, and that motion moved the oil well structure up and down, thus pumping the oil up into pipe lines. Company housing came with the job, and our house, cow barn, garden, chicken coops, and underground tornado shelter would be surrounded by working, pumping wells. With the long dry summer months, and the ever-present wind, that waving prairie was an accident waiting to happen.

I never knew what sparked the fires. A carelessly tossed cigarette somewhere, someone’s out-of-control trash fire, sparks from vehicles perhaps.

Daddy would come racing home, in the pickup if he had gone farther afield, or on our horse Brownie (see photo with a young CJ) if he was working closer to home. He would wrestle the 55-gallon drums into the pickup bed, fill them with water from the cistern, throw in a pile of gunny sacks (from cattle feed), and off we would go to battle the conflagration.

Mother and I were in charge of the smaller creeping flames, while Daddy tackled the bigger ones. We would dunk the gunny sacks into the water, and whack the soggy material onto the blaze. Of all importance was keeping the fire from the oil wells, because if one of them went up, the house would go too.

Tho miles separated us from the closest neighbors, sight of smoke on the horizon would bring many folks to help.

Once all embers and sparks were extinguished, we headed home, dirty, ash-smudged, and coughing from smoky lungs, but in a state of euphoria for a job well done.

Another intense episode in my childhood instilled memories relating to the smell of cooked carrots.

One year we had a bumper crop of carrots from the garden, and Mother, sister Gail, and myself were up to our elbows in canning carrots when my father, all bloody and disheveled, came riding up on Brownie. Well, he wasn’t really riding, he was sort of draped across our horse, and Brownie brought him home. He had had an accident with the testing tractor, and was seriously injured. He recalls thinking he would be calm so as not to frighten us, not realizing how he looked!

Mother quickly called the boss (some distance away) for help and Daddy was transported to hospital and subsequently recovered in full. Brownie got extra special rations after that near-tragedy, as it would not have been good if Daddy had had to lay in a grassland gulley until dark, and we realized he wasn’t coming home, and would then go looking for him. My love of carrots remains, but I still get a frisson of fright when I walk by a buffet with a tub of steaming carrots.

Other smells that have impacted me include the fragrance of Mother’s cooking when I came home from school. Weather permitting I walked the couple of miles to and from the country school, and I could sniff supper before I even got to the yard. In winter it would be beef stew or ham and beans, and in summer there was chicken and homemade noodles, or veggie casseroles from the garden along with garden-fresh, just baked rhubarb pie.

I’m sure that’s why, when, during some distressing times of my life, I‘ve headed to the kitchen for a cooking frenzy, whipping up something fragrant and hearty. All it takes to make me feel comforted and safe is to encounter those wonderful aromas. I’ve come home. All is well.

Going Home Again

Willie, Waylon, Vince, Seal, Bob Seger and Kenny G always bring me home from Kansas, after the semi-annual visit to family. A radio station featuring my preferred artists is not always readily available on the road, so I assure myself of pleasing company by packing my favorite CDs. On this particular trip I attended my 55th high school reunion, the first visit with my classmates since graduation (see what's left of the Class of '52, above. That's me in the mostly blue tropical print jacket.). There were only 24 to begin with, and not everyone was able to attend this reunion. It was tremendous fun getting reacquainted, and hearing what everyone had been up to for 55 years. School and graduation were in tiny nearby Madison, but we gathered at the American Legion Hall in Emporia, Kansas, the town where I spent the 17 years of married life.

Traveling from my sister’s hometown near Wichita, I arrived in Emporia early enough to drive around a bit and see if I could locate the places I had lived. I found one of our houses, that my husband and his father had built, occupied and still looking presentable. The other places were either long gone, or the neighborhood had changed so much I didn’t recognize them. Brought back lots of memories, both good and not so good.

In this town I had been a card assembler at Hallmark Cards, church secretary, executive secretary to the Art Dept. head at Kansas State Teacher’s College, then typesetter and page-makeup artist at the same College.

In this town I swam and sunned at the city pool, rode my bike to work to the tune of 8 miles a day, bowled my way to numerous awards, crowned by placing 28th nationally in the Women’s Singles in Las Vegas, made lifelong friends, and generally learned to be a self-sufficient, independent woman, excelling at just about everything to which I set my mind.

In this town I came face to face with racial prejudice from people in my church, and it nearly destroyed me. In this town I struggled with my country going to war (1960s) that was not called a war. In this town I became disillusioned with my marriage, coming to the realization that it was not going to survive the disparity between my husband and myself.

My childhood with parents and older sisters gave me values and belief in myself that sustained me well, in those good times and the bad. The formative, growing, and learning years in this town were the bridge between that childhood and my mature life ahead. When I headed for Texas, sans husband, I literally never looked back.

They say you can’t go home again. Well, you can visit, certainly. You can reminisce. You can remember.

And that’s a very good thing.

I Thought I Had Time

As my friends know, I'm a communicator, and when I think of stuff, it seems to have to come out my fingers in type. I often feel compelled to share my thoughts, hoping my readers will take my words to heart. This is one of those times.

In 1960 I had been married 5 years, living in Emporia, concentrating on building my life as a married lady. My parents were going, doing, living their lives. We visited maybe every week or so, as I remember. My mother was 63, no health problems that we knew of.

I thought I had time.

In June, 1960, at age 63, my mother suffered a massive heart attack, and 3 days later was gone. I still grieve that I had wasted time that I could have spent with her, things I could have told her, things I would have liked her to tell me.

I thought I had time.

In January, 1973, I kicked over the traces, divorced my husband, and, as I like to say, ran to Texas, where I had friends. My father had remarried, and was busy traveling with Edna, enjoying his retirement years by following a gospel group they liked. Tho in his late 70s, no major health problems. In those days before the internet, during those first 8 months in Texas, I wrote letters home, every month or so, but no phone calls. No hearing my Daddy's voice in my ear.

I thought I had time.

September, 1973, I got the phone call from my Big Sister Gail that Daddy, age 78, had had a massive heart attack, and literally fell over dead working in his garden, doing what he loved.

I thought I had time.

By now you can see where this is going. Most of the time, we don't know what tomorrow will bring. However, sometimes, we DO get clues, such as when our loved ones are seriously ill.

Dear Readers, whether you have gotten clues, or life is sailing along very nicely, do not, I repeat, DO NOT take your loved ones for granted. Take the time to visit, NOW, to communicate, go places with them, share your memories of the years.

My prayer is that you will not forever regret not spending time with your loved ones: parents, siblings, children, friends.

You might not have time.