You know, it’s almost
like paging through
a photo album. Every
New Year’s I pull out the
last year’s file and rifle back
through them, recalling the
columns and enjoying again
the pleasure I had writing
them for you. OK, let me be
honest: I wrote them for me,
too. It was fun, even if steadily
harder work.
Let me share a couple of
great memories raised by last
year’s columns, and then add
a final 2009 note, not from
any column but from Christmas
just past. It hasn’t been
in print, but it will stay in my
heart, surely.
A year ago this time
brought a great new feature
to Fly Creek and a new
distinction to our household.
Fly Creek got back a barbershop
of its very own when
Reid Nagelschmitt opened for
business at the Four Corners.
Ried, at six foot eight is a
towering figure among the
world’s barbers, runs a grand
old-fashioned shop, complete
with
back-issue
magazines
and wilted
potted
plants. It’s
just like the
old days;
and when
you drive
by, many of
the gents
you see sitting
inside,
purportedly
waiting for
haircuts, are
really just
enjoying the
ambiance
and busting one another’s
chops. Reid, bless him, has
given Fly Creek a small-scale
Mohican Club.
The big event at our
house last winter was Blue’s
receiving his official papers
as a therapy dog. He’s now
welcome at hospitals, nursing
and retirement homes, and
schools. Last month I tagged
along at Bassett while Blue
did his rounds.
Anne walked him
into the surgical
waiting room
full of silent,
frightened relatives.
She quietly
introduced Blue
as a therapy dog
and said that, as
she walked him
around the room,
anyone was
welcome to pet
him and scratch
his ears. Everyone
did, relieved at
a chance to take
their minds off
their fears.
With Blue’s head resting on
their knees, they told Anne
why they were there, waiting
for a loved one who, in several
cases, had hours more left
in surgery. Anne visited, and
Blue communed, his mismatched
eyes fixed on the
person’s. I have no question
that he was reading their
pain.
I watched in awe, proud
as can be of my wife and
our dog. And when the two
headed off to another waiting
room, I was touched to see
that many who had been
sitting in silent fear were now
talking to one another. Dogs
are instruments of grace.
Another instrument of
grace, begun early in 2009,
is our Parkinson’s support
group. Eight men, who to that
time had been dealing with
their illness largely with the
sole support of their wives,
suddenly had one another.
The result was amazing,
moving; and not just for the
men. For the care partners,
often housebound by their
loved ones’ illness, suddenly
had company that knew
exactly what they were going
through. Everyone has been
strengthened.
I’ll write more about my
own 2009 experiences with
Parkinson’s in a few weeks.
For now, let me again express
Anne’s and my thanks to
the support group men and
women who are now sharing
our pilgrimage with us.
They feel like family.
The added treasured
memory, the one that
hasn’t been in print, follows
on Anne’’s and my annual
custom: With our fellow Fly
Creekers, we join in the
candlelight service at our
hamlet’s United Methodist
Church. For as long as I’ve
known it, this handsome
little church has never been
limited to its own congregation.
It's Fly Creek’s metropolitan
cathedral.
The Christmas Eve service
there always involves
candlelight and wonderful
music, and this past year it
did so in aces. Pastor Tom
Pullyblank had banked the
communion table with
dozens of unlit candles,
seemingly of random colors
and sizes. But they weren’t
random at all. As the short
scripture readings followed
one another, candles were lit
to represent the Christmas
story’s principals. First a pair
of candles was lit to symbolize
Mary and Joseph, heading
for Bethlehem. Then a
short, stolid-looking candle
took flame to stand for the
innkeeper who first refused
and then relented and let
them camp in his stable.
A clutch of homely
candles, lighted in turn,
stood for those poor hillside
shepherds who were
dazzled by heavenly light.
And behind them, a couple
dozen ivory tapers, tall
and graceful, stood for the
angels who raised such a
heavenly ruckus.
Then, of course, three
more candles appeared
toward the front, these
for Casper, Melchior, and
Balthazar.
When the readings were
done, the communion table
was an island of light in the
darkened church. It was
then that a final candle was
lit, representing the Child
new born. And from it, light
spread down the aisles and
along the pews as each of us
touched that candle’s flame
to our own tapers. ``Silent
Night,’’ sung softly just then,
moved us all deeply.
That turned out not to
be service’s closing hymn.
Instead, we stood and sang
carol after carol, accompanied
by the church’s organ
now handsomely restored.
That service was a feast of
music and light.
Thanks, Pastor Tom, for a
wondrous Christmas gift.
What a blessed end to the
year.
READ ABOUT Jim Atwell’s book, From
Fly Creek--Celebrating Life in
Leatherstocking Country, at JimAtwell.
com
