What about the swirling
currents that move us
through our lives? Sometimes,
like a floating leaf,
we tumble over shallows
and rocks; sometimes we
snub briefly against a
shoreline. What about those
currents? Is some plan
spinning itself out, or are
we carried on and to the
end by sheer chance?
Beats the hell out of me,
friends! But when I look
back across my decades,
I’m awed by what has
brought me (so far) and has
beached me happily in Fly
Creek.
Maybe I’m only snugged
temporarily here; maybe
some errant wave will
swing me out and on, down
the stream. I don’t think so.
I believe Fly Creek, more
like home than any previous
place, is where I’m
beached for good.
But, oh, how I got here!
You know much of the story:
a boy from Annapolis,
Maryland, a sleepy southern
town back in the `fifties,
goes off to be a monk. Then
thirteen years praying,
studying, teaching. Then
two-dozen years at a fine
Maryland community college
as professor and dean;
eighteen of them happily
married to another academic,
Gwen Vosburgh.
After cancer took Gwen,
a few more years at the college,
and then answering
an urge to move north, to
what had been our planned
retirement home in Fly
Creek. And, months before
leaving Annapolis, meeting
Anne Geddes, product of
her own sweep of events
that had carried her, south
and east, all the way from
Calgary, Alberta, to southern
Maryland.
And then our happy
marriage, already a dozen
years old, and our blessed
life in our hamlet, our town,
our county, our home.
It dizzies me to think
back on my sweep down the
stream, and the improbable
surges that moved me from
one setting to another. I’m
tempted to change the image,
think of myself as a
pool ball, caroming from
other balls and from cushioned
sides till I come to a
temporary rest — only to be
rapped and sped on my way
again.
Here’s an example, not
from my life but from
Gwen’s. For her childhood’s
events ended up defining
my later life, and Anne’s,
too.
Gwen’s dad, pastor of
Edmeston’s Second Baptist
Church when she was
small, accepted a call to a
church in Cameron, South
Carolina. That’s a village
about the size of Edmeston,
though its wide streets and
lawns are shaded by live
oaks festooned with Spanish
moss, and the old houses
all have deep porches
and rocking chairs. Rev.
Vosburgh had moved his
family a thousand miles
south, from peaceful Edmeston
to another village of
peace.
Cameron’s peace had
been shattered once,
though, a decade before.
Sheriff George Tilley, a
man in his thirties, had
been called out of bed in the
middle of the night. An escaped
murderer had been
recaptured and needed to
be hauled back to the jail. A
generous man and widely
respected, Tilley dressed
and headed out to do the
job.
Whoever turned Willie
Gideon over to Sheriff Tilley
had not properly
searched him. Out on the
highway, though in handcuffs.
Gideon pulled a pistol
from his boot and shot Tilley.
The mortally wounded
sheriff was found in his
wrecked car. Rushed to the
hospital, he died soon after.
Gideon was later caught,
still in his handcuffs, and
returned to prison, now to
face a second murder
charge.
That story was already
legend in Cameron when
the Vosburghs and their
three daughters arrived in
town. And the sheriff’s widow,
Miss Johnny Tilley, as
everyone called her, rocked
on her front porch as the
Vosburgh girls played
around in the shaded yard
with her own adopted niece
Nancy.
The Rev. Vosburgh, by
all accounts, was a selfless
pastor; he took on two poor
country churches as well as
his Cameron charge. And
he was a witty man and a
practical joker, too. But
strong of will, he began to
lock horns with his oldest
daughter as she entered
her teens. That was my
Gwen.
When Gwen was fifteen
and the tension was high,
the pastor still carried on a
practical joke that had long
since become old hat. He’d
come in, exhausted from
his schedule, stagger towards
the bed, and fall on
it, gasping and holding his
chest. ``This is it! Goodbye
all! I’m gone!’’
This act had long since
brought only a dismissive
``Oh, dad!’’ from the girls
and his toddler son. But
one dark evening he fell on
the bed, gasped, and fell silent.
It was ten minutes before
they realized that this
was no joke. He was dead of
a coronary.
My Gwen, shocked,
grieved, guilt-ridden that
she’d somehow caused this,
ran screaming into the
moonlit streets. People
poured out of houses; and
down her own porch steps
came Miss Johnny, the
dead sheriff’s .38 revolver
in her hand. If something
awful was happening again,
by God, she was going to
stop it!
Gwen ended up moving
north again to spare expense
to her widowed mother,
two sisters, and a baby
brother — and perhaps to
flee undeserved guilt. She
lived with Edmeston’s Chesebrough
family, who generously
supported her first
years in college. Gwen
eventually earned an
M.B.A., taught first at Alfred,
then was recruited
down to Anne Arundel in
Maryland, the same year a
young ex-monk joined the
faculty.
That’s how an awful
night in Gwen’s childhood
changed the current of her
life, made it overlap with
mine, and brought me to
Otsego County. From grief
over her death, I later fled
north, too.
Mere chance or plan beyond
grasping? I don’t
know. But, sharing life with
dear Anne, who gave me
life again, I’m awed, humbled,
grateful.
Read about Jim Atwell’s
book, From Fly Creek--Celebrating
Life in Leatherstocking
Country, at JimAtwell.
com.
Columns
Jim Atwell: Chance or plan?
- Columns
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From Fly Creek: Cheers for the Blue Rabbit!
My handwriting’s always been an embarrassment. Way back in elementary school, while most of the others were developing a clear, sometimes graceful hand (especially the girls), my penmanship showed no improvement.
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In These Otsego Hills: This and that ...
We have found the weather so far this year to be on the unusual side. And while we have no problem with the fact that we have received very little snow, we are of the opinion that what we have had instead is not particularly to our liking either. In fact, we are very hesitant to venture out much as we live in fear that the rain will turn to mixed precipitation which will freeze into a sheet of ice. And we are definitely opposed to encountering a sheet of ice underfoot. In fact, we are so hesitant that we now have taken to canceling our participation in events based on what just might be a dubious forecast.
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Book Notes: Feinstein’s latest is sheer enjoyment
Most people who follow sports have probably heard of John Feinstein. As a nationally known author, sportswriter, pundit and broadcaster, he has brought a unique angle to sports journalism. His groundbreaking book on Bobby Knight’s 1986-87 Indiana University basketball team, “A Season on the Brink,” still resonates today as an all-time classic.
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Book Notes: No Trekkie should miss Shatner’s books
It would be hard to find a television phenomenon as popular as “Star Trek.” Even though it was only on television for three seasons and 79 episodes (1966-69) it attracted viewers and devotees that still follow it passionately 45 years later. The fanatical supportspawned several movies and television spinoffs. Star Trek conventions continue to this day. There has never been anything like it.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Making sense of things
A book I have been reading investigates the various ways over time that we have made sense of the world. It carries the reader through to the present via several seminal classical texts and ultimately aims to suggest a strategy for “ finding meaning in a secular age.”
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In These Otsego Hills: ‘Property must be secured or liberty cannot exist.’ − John Adams
Last week we were asked if we would be interested in previewing a documentary, “The Empire State Divide,”produced by the Foundation for Land & Liberty. And we were more than happy to do so as we understood the documentary dealt with the problems that continue to face family farms.
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From Fly Creek: Now wait a minute!
On the ninth day of Christmas, driving down Cooperstown’s Eagle Street, I saw something astounding! No, not “nineladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans” etc. I saw one jogger jogging. And puffing on a cigarette.
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In These Otsego Hills: Goals of the past and goals of the future
We have long subscribed to the concept that we are always more successful if we, number one, set a goal and then, number two, meet it. And this was our thinking when we decided before Christmas to watch at least part of every college football bowl game. It was perhaps an odd, if not completely nonsensical, goal.
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In These Otsego Hills: Not to our liking ...
It is with sadness that we note the recent death of Steve Nagel. The son-inlaw of our late husband’s cousins, Alice and Harvey Eckler of Fly Creek, Steve was married to the Ecklers’ oldest daughter, Gail. We had the pleasure of spending Christmas Eve with the Nagels and the Ecklers in Fly Creek, greatly enjoying the delicious food and delightful conversation.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Of birds and faith
I watch birds quite a bit. Every five days or so I send in a report to Cornell as partof its annual Project Feeder Watch program. The data, collected from volunteers from all over the country, enables scientists to track population trends. I would spend quite a bit of time checking out the visitors to our feeders anyway. Participating in the feeder program makes a personal pleasure that much more meaningful. It is rare that aesthetical and scientific endeavors work in tandem.
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Book Notes: Biography captures the real Stephen Colbert
It would be hard to find a comedian as unique as Stephen Colbert. As the host of “The Colbert Report” on Comedy Central he hasmanaged to leave his mark on the nation’s consciousness in both a serious and humorous sort of way. His unusual wit has allowed him to become American icon. It would be difficult to find another entertainer quite like him.
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From Fly Creek: Christmas and varied blessings
I’m still astounded! The last farmers’ market before Christmas, I was sitting up front, directly under the ceiling heater, shmoozing with the hoi-polloi. (That’s an awkward linguistic mix,but let’s let it go.) As I sipped my hot coffee, a gloved hand came to rest on my shoulder and a warm voice said, “Merry Christmas, Jim.” I looked to my left—it was Santa Claus!
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In These Otsego Hills: Always a learning experience ...
We must admit that we thoroughly enjoyed our 2011 Christmas celebration. We partook of Christmas Eve dinner at the home of Alice and Harvey Eckler of Fly Creek and Christmas Day dinner at the home of Sandy and Al Bullard of Milford. We had our usual Christmas Day brunch at home on Pioneer Street, although we must admit it was a tad bit later than usual as, what we enjoyed most about Christmas, namely our granddaughter Abby, took a great deal of time opening her Christmas presents.
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In These Otsego Hills: Coming up ... 2012
Difficult as it seems, 2011 is fast coming to an end. And it is always our hope that as a year draws to a close, the issues which have been in the forefront during the year will be resolved. Unfortunately, we suspect that will not be the case this year. Instead, we are fairly certain that many of the issues that plagued this year, will continue to plague next year. Thus we will find ourselves still musing about the same issues we have spent time with already. And while we have not come toany conclusions about many of the issues, we do think they would all likely benefit from both sides thinking critically about perspective, risk assessment and possible solutions.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Circularity
When she was a puppy my dog Gabby would run in what I described then as “circles of joy.” She celebrated her15th birthday a few weeks ago and despite the inevitable frailties that old age imposes upon all of us, she is doing pretty well.
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Book Notes: Grisham doesn’t disappoint
John Grisham is one of this country’s most popular authors. Every time he publishes a book it’s an instant best-seller. He appeared on the scene about 20 years ago with his tense legal thrillers, “A Time to Kill” and “The Firm,”and hasn’t stopped producing top-notch novels since.
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From Fly Creek: Still singing, beyond our hearing
This column from Christmas 2001 still speaks deeply to me, and perhaps will to you, too. Take it, please, as my Christmas gift.
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In These Otsego Hills: The 2011 Cooperstown Carol
Since 1984, with the exception of one year, 1999, we have looked forward at the end of the year to going through all the issues of the paper in order to glean those news items which have been worthy of note throughout the year and which should make their way into our annual Cooperstown Carol.
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In These Otsego Hills: Dear Santa ...
Although we tend to think Christmas is for children and thus rarely think about what we might like to have, this year we have decided to let Santa know what might be left under the tree with our name on it. Of course, we fully understand if our list is a bit long, a bit expensive and a bitlate. However, we have just finished reading our November issue of Health and so have just realized what we need that we do not currently have.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Irony abounds
These are querulous times. Dissent and disagreement, as uncomfortable as they sometimes are, are essential components of a viable democracy. Democracies are always messy because everyone has a right to speak his mind and because whenever a majority is able to gain the numerical upper hand it pretty much runs the show. Several political philosophers have written quite persuasively of what they characterize as the “tyranny of the majority.” Get enough people on your side and you have the opportunity to get your way so long as you are able to maintain power. I suspect that most thoughtful people would agree that wisdom is hard to come by.
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From Fly Creek: Cheers for the Blue Rabbit!
