Columns
Jim Atwell: Chance or plan?
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
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From Fly Creek: Passing fronts and settled weather
(I owe the first part of this column to an informal writers’ workshop sponsored by the Smithy Pioneer Gallery. The small group, led by Gallery Director Danielle Newell, meets Sunday afternoons and is open to anyone interested in the writing craft. As a warmup exercise on that very rainy afternoon, we each wrote a few paragraphs on the weather and emotions. Here’s what that keen group prompted me to scribble down) The dour old Scotsman, the one featured in jokes without number about buying lottery tickets, pinching pennies, scorning worldly ways, etc., once silenced a friend who was praising the beautiful weather.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: We're back from Michigan ...
Unfortunately, we once again find ourselves stuck in a time warp. When we look at the calendar, we realize that Labor Day is fast approaching. Yet, we seem to be operating under the misconception that it is still early July due in large part to the fact that we spent the almost five weeks from July 15 to August 17 in Grand Rapids, Michigan. We feel the summer has sailed by and we, unfortunately, have not kept pace.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Censorship?
All those indebted to John Lawrence, Post-rider, and do not settle the same IMMEDIATELY may rely upon having to pay cost!! Otego, Aug. 24.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: 1984 comes to a close ... finally
As we continue traipsing through 1984, we realize that even though we were supposed to be covering the comings and goings of Cooperstown, we actually were able, even then, to touch on a number of pressing community, as well as personal, issues. Of course, much to the relief of the powers that were at CCS, the school was not among them. The he-we ran for the school board in 1984 and was elected. Thus the school was deemed off limits by the powers that were at the paper. But we discovered there was still a wide range of issues upon which we could write.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: New school book
From the Otsego Herald for Saturday, Aug. 18, 1810
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Books offer tennis insights
Professional tennis sometimes seems to be the ultimate life. Where else could you travel the world, earn gobs of money, get in great shape, and have groupies from the opposite sex chasing you all the time? And you get all your equipment free to boot (which may explain why players smash racquets without remorse). Quite a glamorous life, isn’t it?
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: Continuing our 1984 musings
Now that we have undertaken the beginnings of this column, we fear we find ourselves unable to stop our review of the early writings. In fact, we seem to be completely addicted to the project. And thus, we will continue to explore the very foundations on which this column has been built.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Burnett's book recalls 'Golden Age'
It’s a shame that today’s young generation missed the golden age of television from the 1960s and 70s. The fact that Hollywood studios with their ``original’’ ideas of constantly remaking hit TV shows from that era into new movies and reunion specials is quite telling. Even Fox with its ``That 70’s Show’’ is a reminder of that whimsical time.
Continued ... -
Home Notes: A place to cherish
As we enter into the middle of summer, let us pause and relish in the fact that we have been blessed with such lovely weather.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: Hurray for Mother Bassett!
Just back from my annual week at Lake George’s Silver Bay, in company with about 600 other Quakers. As always, it was a great time: Friends shared silence in the early morning by the lake and during the day in the big brown-shingled tabernacle. (Silver Bay is an old YMCA camp.)
Continued ...
Plenty of fine stringed music and singing in the evenings; lots of daytime rocking-chair stints on the deep veranda, facing across rolling lawns and lake to green mountains and skies of startling blue. -
In These Otsego Hills: In the beginning
Our remembering Jerry in last week’s column has now lead us to muse about our early days of writing a weekly newspaper column.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Prohibition should not be ignored
I was an American history major in college and one topic that my professors never discussed was prohibition.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Elopement
From the Otsego Herald for Saturday, July 21, 1810 Compiled, with comments BY HUGH C. MACDOUGALL
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Home Notes: Personal Care is a rewarding occupation
When I was a young girl in the early 50’s my family would often take rides through Cooperstown and the Cherry Valley area.
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In These Otsego Hills: Remembering Jerry ...
Difficult as it is to believe, we have been a widow for eleven years this week. And yet it seems as if our late husband Jerry just died yesterday. The memory of it remains most vivid in our mind. We suppose there is much that we don’t remember about July 20, 1999. But we do remember just how much that day changed our life forever. We lost not only our spouse of 28 years, but also our best friend.
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Otsego Herald: Celebrating the 4th
From the Otsego Herald for Saturday, July 14, 1810 Compiled, with comments by
Continued ... -
Our Opinion: What’s good for the goose...
The board of trustees has decided to hire an engineer to review the work of CLA Site, the firm hired to do the site assessment and design work for the Village Gateway Project _ now known as the Cooperstown Intermodal Transit Project. That review will cost up to $12,000.
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From Fly Creek: ‘Thump-thump, dum-lum’
Since I last wrote to you I’ve been several times embraced to Mother Bassett’s bosom.
Continued ...
(Oh dear, I hope that’s not a disrespectful metaphor. But if you’ve seen photos, you know she was a handsome, dignified woman with an ample superstructure.) This time, for variety, the hospital visits at first seemed to have little to do with Parkinsonism. But a new problem had turned up that had me tested in every part of the hospital except obstetrics. -
In These Otsego Hills: Travels with The Widge...
We have decided that the role of grandmother is quite to our liking. As we have been told any number of times, as a grandparent it is perfectly acceptable to hold, play with and fawn over the grandchild until such time as said grandchild becomes fussy. And then, and this is the best part, it is completely within the purview of the grandparent to return the fussy grandchild to the parents. We love it.
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Otsego Herald: Shocking accident, American arrested
On Wednesday last, as Joseph Faulkner, esq. of Middlefield, was returning home from Cherry-Valley, a gust of wind arose up suddenly, a large Elm was blown across the road, directly on Mr. Faulkner, who, together with his horse was instantly killed.
Continued ...
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From Fly Creek: Passing fronts and settled weather
