Holding the rope

I've written about this before, but it bears repeating. And besides, it was the other essay I wrote that I liked enough to consider submitting to "This I Believe." So here it is:

I believe in holding the rope. Through very difficult times, my sister has been my stalwart rope-holder; and let me tell you that there aren’t many things more loving than that. I’m sure her hands are raw and her muscles sore, even though she often writes, “You’re not heavy — you’re my sister.” Can you imagine how hard it is to hold that rope month after month, knowing that if you let go — or the rope frays and breaks — you may lose forever the person hanging onto the other end? Looking back now, I see clearly how close I was to giving up. But my sister wouldn’t let me. She isn’t the only one who held the rope, but she held it night after night, day after day — and she just wouldn’t give up on me.

Loie is a world-champion rope-holder, and I believe in holding the rope, because I know it saved me when I was floundering on the rocks. Sometimes it's the only and the best thing we can do for those we love. Many of our biggest battles rage within, while our family and friends stand by helplessly. But they have an important job: holding the rope. We share our trials and hopes, and any victory or joy of one of us is a victory or joy for all of us. Hey, sometimes you get the bear, and sometimes the bear gets you. This time, the bear didn’t get me.

So never underestimate the power of holding the rope. It can save a life.

"This I believe"

As a self-described wordsmith, I decided to get with it and submit a "This I Believe" entry for Shepherdstown and Shepherd University. Essay readings will be held on Nov. 21 and Dec. 8 in the Robert C. Byrd Center for Legislative Studies auditorium, so it's kind of a big deal for a local event.


Having written six essays, I premiered the one I like best here and got help from Loie and Juancho and input from Rita and Don and Suzi. Thank you all! So ... here is what I just submitted this morning:


I believe in the power of words. Before mass communications, advertising, TV pundits and texting, words were a valuable commodity. People were said to "weigh their words." A man was "as good as his word." Oratory was an art, and poetry was read aloud in ordinary homes. People took oaths and held them sacred; family letters were kept and cherished; and oral histories were handed down with ceremony and care. The Bible tells us that “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

I learned early that words build bridges among individuals and cultures and developed an ease, whether talking to the old men chewing tobacco on “spit corner” or to professors in the college town where I grew up. When I was just 22 years old, I lived in a barrio in Panama, and there I used my best high-school Spanish to converse with my Colombian neighbor who would often yell, “Raton! Raton!” as she took a broom to the rats that were nearly as pervasive as cockroaches. She would speak English to me, and we became friends that way, she with her halting English and I with my awkward Spanish.

Ah, words! They comfort, soothe, stir to action, start and end wars, whisper of love and secrets, create poetry, songs and plays. For me, words are an artist’s palette. They hold endless possibilities for combining and blending to draw the pictures I see in my mind, and they hold the subtle shades of meaning implicit in every thought I convey. I love a good metaphor almost as much as a good story. And storytelling is in my DNA. My granddad told stories peppered with plenty of swear words, having been a coal miner and moonshiner; and my dad was an apple that didn’t fall far from that tree. Growing up, I heard people say that my great-grandfather was such a colorful storyteller that people looking for his home would be told to just drive out that road a ways and look for the house where there were a lot of people gathered on the front porch.

But words are also fun, tossed around like a Frisbee to bend the mind and stretch the imagination like a bungee cord. People can google, lollygag or dillydally. They can be scalawags or quidnuncs. Sometimes a word practically defines itself, and just the right word can land just the right punch.

To me, words are little time machines. They transport me to faraway places and draw me as close as breath. They connect me to my past, to my present, to my loved ones, near and far. I can still hear how my dad pronounced “creek” as “crick,” a telltale sign that he grew up in the Appalachians where language is often stretchy and homespun.

Great speeches, simple sermons and letters between friends can start movements, heal wounds and open hearts. These things called words are powerful, and best of all, they can express to an audience just what I believe.

Thanksgiving, anyone?

Now if you aren't someone who likes to have a plan, you won't identify with this. But Thanksgiving used to be my favorite holiday, long before it became the starting gate for the Christmas shopping rush and got all lost in football games and the "holiday season."

I still like to think of it as the simplest and most "American" of all holidays -- just a day to share our bounty and express our gratitude for it. Even the obligatory news reporters telling us how crowded the airports and roads are always warmed my heart, because, well, people want to go home for Thanksgiving, apparently even more than at Christmas. They want to share it with their loved ones, because maybe one of the loneliest images on the planet is that of someone alone on Thanksgiving day -- no turkey or gravy, no cranberries or pumpkin pie. Worst of all: no stuffing! 


So I figured I'd revive the tradition of Thanksgiving here on Glen Road, given that it's almost surely the last Thanksgiving I'll live here. I know all about the hard work of making the meal, but I can practically do it with my eyes closed after all these years. (And, actually, my first idea was for all of us to get a cabin at Blackwater Falls and have the gathering there, but that didn't work out.)  But it's not easy being the one who is a Meyers-Briggs J in a family of MB P's.


Here's the way it looks as of now. Beth has only "the day" itself off and is standing by to help Bryan make the meal with his family so can't commit to any of the alternatives, which are: Steve wants to have the crowd at his and Beth's house; Mitch and Laurie apparently want to have it at their house, since that's been recent tradition, and they are getting a new puppy a few days before, hampering their ability to travel; I wanted people to come here so I don't have to drive on the holiday; and Zach just wants to be with his family.


It's too complicated for me to figure out. I'll leave that to the Falter P's and maybe just go to the Rescue Mission and volunteer to lade out the food to the men there who are grateful to have a hot meal and not be alone on Thanksgiving. There's the tension -- wanting to be with my own family or showing my gratefulness by serving others. I'm pretty sure I know WWJD.

The Lincoln Society of Athens, Ohio, convenes at last

Well, Paula is missing in this photograph, but Katie Roberts is standing in for her. That's Katie, Suzi and Nanell on the left; and front to back on the right are Irene, Mary Ellen, Anne and I, gathered for breakfast at a friendly spot on W. Union Street in Athens.
  It was a lovely day of eating, talking, strolling across the O.U. campus, and then visiting cemeteries in the afternoon as the rain set in. We paid our respects to Anne's parents, to Irene's parents and brother Joe, to Mary Ellen's sister Katie, and to my parents and the Simpkins clan in Millfield.
  Meanwhile, back at the diner, Suzi and I were there when Nanell, Anne, Irene and Mary arrived. Since I was wearing O.U. Bobcat colors and homecoming was approaching on the campus, I casually asked if anyone there remembered the O.U. fight song. Nanell, still standing, began to sing the entire song, never missing a beat or a word; then with perfect aplomb, she segued right into the Athens High School fight song and alma mater. I sat slack-jawed, amazed at this impromptu performance that topped Meg Ryan's famous one at the deli in "When Harry Met Sally." I mean, really, Nanell didn't even attend O.U., and she knew every word! 
  Okay, so you had to have been there to fully appreciate it, but it was one of the highlights, among many, of the girlfriends' get-together last week, which was superb. These women are smart as whips, funny as all get-out, gorgeous and generous and kind-hearted. Ask anyone. Don't take my word for it.
  And speaking of words, here are the lyrics to the Ohio University fight song, just in case you want to belt it out yourself and put it on YouTube! I double-dog-dare you. Rah! Rah! Rah!

"Stand Up and Cheer"

Stand up and cheer,
Cheer loud and long for old Ohio,
For today we raise
The Green and White above the rest.

Our teams are fighting
And they are bound to win the fray.
We've got the team,
We've got the steam,
For this is old Ohio's day!
Rah! Rah! Rah!

A promise kept

It has now been four years since we buried our parents at Hilltop Cemetery in Millfield, Ohio, their work on this earth complete and their spirits now with God. It still surprises me that I find solace here amid  these cold, stone memorials, but I do.

When I survey the cemetery in its humble surroundings and see how lovingly the graves are tended, how many have fresh flowers adorning them, I know that if we are fortunate, when it comes time for us to leave our loved ones behind, we will not be forgotten. Rita and Don visit often and tend to the grave site.

To the right of  Momma's and Daddy's grave marker is a smaller one for Robert Lee Simpkins, their first-born child who lived only one day in April of 1935. Even though there were five other children who came after, I'm sure that my parents never forgot their first child -- the one who never had a chance to live the fragile life he was given. Would he have been shy or bold, practical or a dreamer? We may never know, but we can still imagine our oldest brother Robert and keep a special place in our hearts for him.


The little marker on the left is mine. No date of birth or death. No "Falter" or "Whalen." Just Nancy Lynn Simpkins, daughter of James A. "Peck" and Roena, with the inscription at the top that reads "Will the Circle Be Unbroken." Rita and Don helped me put it there, with Don setting it in a bit of cement to keep it in place. The older I get, the more important it seems to keep that circle unbroken.

Our dad wanted us to be buried in the Simpkins plot, in a place that held fond memories for him, a place that provided all he needed to dream big, to learn what makes people tick and to know that "the man upstairs" was whom you were accountable to -- not the boss man or somebody in the government. More than anything, I think that those early years in Millfield helped him learn to be resourceful and provided lots of space for his imagination to run free. We disagreed about burial versus cremation, Peck and I, but the last promise I made to him was that some part of me would be left in that spot next to him and Momma. I guess home really is where the heart is, no matter how trite it sounds,



Momma noted before she was gone that none of "her people" were there among the Simpkins clan. Her people, the Shafers and Wilsons, were not the scalawags and rough-and-tumble types more typical of the Simpkins. They were quiet and steady, strong and modest. I wish I could say that I feel some of their DNA or blood coursing through my veins, but I don't. To be outspoken was to be impertinent. To push the envelope was to be insolent. To rebel was to  play with fire. They weren't loud or unruly, didn't raise their voices or double-dog-dare or take to drink or behave badly. To Momma's dismay, I wasn't obedient and didn't show the proper decorum a young woman should. I questioned. I challenged. I was a bit of a trial to her, if not an outright disappointment, especially since old Doc Hamilton said to her when I was born that she "finally got one who looked like her."

Rita is more like Momma, and she was a mother to me when I was growing up. Now, just like Mom, she keeps things orderly and tidy, and she is helping all of us understand where we came from, what we're made of, with her extensive ancestry research. Right now, she is stuck several generations back on the Simpkins line, but eventually she will round up every last one of those scalawags and put them in their places in our family line. I think we all suspect that she will find  a few horse thieve, black sheep or worse, but she is undeterred.

There's something contrary in that Simpkins line, something that caused them to draw the line in the sand and then dare anyone to step over it, something that is restless and mischief-making. But they are bound to be the people that you can't fool any of the time -- the ones who could read people and their motives, who knew better than to accept anything at face value, who just didn't suffer fools gladly. If Roena's line can be credited with my better angels, then it is Peck's side that explains my love for a good story and my chafing at authority and willingness to go to the mat for what I think is right. Some people would call that "opinionated." To me, it's just standing up for myself and not expecting anybody else to do that for me. The last words I spoke to Daddy as he lay sleeping on his 95th birthday were, "Whatever you do, Daddy, don't let anybody push you around." As I turned to close the door, I saw him raise his fist high in the air. What a sweet, sweet memory that is.

Still going strong after 50 years

The Lincoln Society of Athens, Ohio, established in 1962, is still going strong after 50 years. In fact, all living members convened for a girlfriends' reunion in our hometown this past week, and I brought along Abraham Lincoln coffee mugs (found in the dark recesses of a country store at Seneca Rocks) this time. It is fitting and proper that the mugs, though made in China, were bought in West Virginia, because my home state is the only one in the union established by presidential order -- yes, the great man, himself -- at the end of the Civil War.

Having recently crawled out from under the rock that has weighed me down for over two years, I realized that I did not observe Lincoln's birthday this year, so at the end of September, my friend Bob drove off the beaten path so that I could visit Nancy Hanks' birthplace at a little outpost in the middle of nowhere. The cabin is a replica of what Lincoln's mother would have lived in, but make no mistake: Those women did not have it easy. Try living in such a tiny space with no conveniences like electricity, heat and running water, never mind the Internet and lattes at Starbucks, and you can see that raising young 'uns would be a challenge of staggering proportions. We're obviously going soft as a nation, most of us clinging to our material comforts, so it's no surprise to me that it's often only immigrants who are willing to work even half as hard as our foremothers did.

While I was there, I signed the guestbook on behalf of all of the members of the Lincoln Society of Athens, Ohio: Anne, Mary Ellen, Nanell, Irene, Suzi and Paula, as well as our dear, departed friend Patti.
 

And there in the cabin was the memorable quote from Abraham Lincoln: All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.

I'm just about sure that my own children will use that as their epitaph when the time comes. 

Harvest Time

This creamy white and orange pumpkin is a variety known as "One-Too-Many." Passing through the tiny town of Accident, Md., a few weeks ago, I stopped to pick out a pumpkin from wagon-loads of beauties. Spotting a particularly fine specimen of the "One-Too-Many," I began waxing poetic about how it looked like marble, how utterly, well, Renaissance it looked -- like a sculpture. 


As the farmer approached, I asked him, "What is this amazing pumpkin?" He leaned back, grinned a bit and said, "Well, it's called a 'one-too-many,' and we figure it's because it looks like, you know, how a man's eyes look all bloodshot when he's had one too many."

Hey, it's a better explanation than I've found on the horticulture sites, but I guess I should have gotten two of them, then set them side-by-side on my front porch -- a pair of bleary eyes, staring into the early darkness.

Who except for Mitch can resist the charms of autumn: all those leaves, taking their colors from an artist's palette, the sunny and warm days and chilly nights, the anticipation of Halloween, smell of moldy leaves and a hot cup of Ovaltine. Well, there's football, of course, for some folks. But for me, it's a feast for the senses and a time to reflect on what I have to show from the growing season -- my own harvest. Time to get a stack of books -- or of firewood. Time to drive the backroads where the pace of life is slower, and sometimes when you round a bend in the road, you see a little church in the wildwood that looks something like this one along a scenic byway in West Virginia. 

Come to think of it, why would you want to be anywhere else this time of year? C'mon down (or up for those of you living in the South). 

Upward and onward!

Well, it has been a long time since I've climbed on Ajax Rock, but I think I regained my footing when, just a few days ago, I managed finally to hike into the Dolly Sods area of West Virginia and into this ethereal landscape that was first stripped of its valuable timber, then scorched to its bare rocks by fire. That's a good metaphor for what I've been through lo these many months.

But here's the important thing: The Dolly Sods (named after an early German settler named Dahle who was a POW during the Revolutionary War and decided to either defect or otherwise not return to his native land) lives again and has been remade by the hands of God or the natural evolution of the earth, whichever you believe, into a completely different landscape -- and a fragile but sturdy one at that. Perhaps that's what happens when we go inside a cocoon and emerge forever changed by that mysterious process we cannot understand.

Today, right in the midst of the Allegheny Highlands, there exists an ecosystem more Alpine than any place south of the Canadian provinces -- a place of wild bogs, reindeer moss and an insect-eating flower called sundew. A place where the temperature can drop from 80 degrees to 20 degrees on a summer day, when storms whip up out of nowhere. A place where only experienced hikers dare to explore.

Something happened to me when I stepped onto that sacred ground. Let's  call it a regeneration, a renewal or a baptism. Whatever it was, it was something that stirred deep within me and sent up a new, green shoot -- one that wanted to write again, to connect to my family and the strong sense of place that many of us have.

But I don't want this to be my blog. I hope that it will become all of yours, too. Cecilia climbed on Ajax Rock one day and called, "Hello...Is anybody out there?" And she didn't get an answer. Today I echo that call and hope that some of you will find your way back to the place we could all connect, dream, remember and, yes, sometimes use as a soapbox.

It is just four years and two days since Peck was buried (or, as they say in these parts, "went home to be with God"), and soon it will be four years since our mother followed him. More than anything else, they wanted the tribe, the family, to stay close -- to help each other, to keep connected. In that spirit, I'm firing the first volley. I just hope it doesn't land in the fragile, beautiful mountaintop of the Dolly Sods, close to the heart of many of the Unglaciated Allegheny Plateau People: our people.