Two Oriental Homes

Adam says this is his favorite house in Oriental, and I think I agree. It's lovely old stone, and it's so settled into its surroundings, you know? Like it's been there forever, nestled in its lawn, gazing out over the Neuse River.

Here it is from the other side. Yes, it does sit right on the river, with only a slim road between, a road which I love to ride along on my bike. I've only once seen a person, an elderly person, sitting on the porch. It's a prime piece of real estate with huge gnarled live oaks stretched across the front lawn.

Next door, an impressive tent was set up at the River Neuse Suites. This marks the first wedding of the season. They have the reception, the music, the dancing, under the "big top." The ceremony itself is held across the street in LouMac Park, with the waves lapping at the couple's feet.

The Stallings House, one of our more magnificent older homes, is only a few doors away. There are a handful of large houses along the river, and this is the big one that is easily spotted from a sailboat, if you're out on the water. The family has been cleaning out the house, and now it is offered for rent, I suppose if you'd like to have some large gathering for a week in a picture-perfect location. The house sits directly on the water; if you could peak around the corner of those tall columns, you'd see the river stretched out before you -- seven miles of it. You could watch the sailboats bobbing along.

Flowers are everywhere, in every yard and every bed, now.

You've now seen two of the nicest houses in town.

Greenfield Civil Wars: Chapter Three

(Other chapters of this book can be found by clicking the box above, in the tab bar, called Greenfield Civil Wars.)

Chapter 3 -- Rev. Shepherd and Mr. Heeler

Pastor Shepherd did not confide in his wife or her friend his greatest fear. Bad as it was that Juanita Jones would be coming for her brother’s funeral, and that she would stay and be a social plague on all Presbyterians in the city of Greenfield, another anxiety dug into a corner of his brain, a thought he could not bring himself to express.  “Could it be?” he asked himself. “Is it even possible? Would the church allow it?”  These were the unarticulated harpies flitting about in his mind. For Juanita Jones and Willina Hipp were twin sisters of different mothers.  Their temperaments, instincts and drives were identical. Together in one town, in one ecclesiastical community, no force could overcome them on any issue. They would hold absolute sway. His churchman’s heart cowered under the thought. We cannot know what first brought the finished idea into his consciousness; perhaps it was the combination of the vacant leather chair in the college president’s office, and the certain knowledge that Miss Jones would want to stay.  She would grieve the removal of her brother, and then try to assuage her grief by filling the vacuum he left. Finally, Sam Shepherd realized, she would attempt to grasp the presidency for herself.

A woman like that! On the Hezekiah College throne!

Rev. Shepherd felt this alarm quickly and keenly for, of course, his denominational association with the college and seminary were strong. They were all of the Scottish Northern Association of Reformed Covenanters, the SNARK clan, the small but true, the old line of psalm-singing, simple-worshiping folk. He met his dear wife at Hezekiah College, and cut his theological teeth at Strong Seminary. It mattered little to the big-wigs at Leach Street what happened on these miniscule campuses, but their stones and gargoyles, their squirrels and bushes were dear to his heart. And Sam Shepherd knew that the low and constant grumblings of church feuding that occasionally shook the earth beneath his feet now would be nothing – nothing! – to the conflagrations and fisticuffs that would ring through the halls of both Leach Street and Hezekiah Strong, if Juanita Jones were to join their ranks permanently.

Rev. Shepherd paced out of his yard and passed his church. He ran his hand through his mane of brown locks from front to back, and ended by pulling the hair at the crown of his head in an ardent, earnest tug. This he did usually, when his heart was disturbed. The evening sun, the chattering squirrels, the palmetto bugs popping beneath his soles – all these did not distract him from watching the tips of his shoes as he strode with determination toward town. The seminary’s ancient oak trees had sent their roots deep and far afield, under the iron railings, beneath the sidewalk bricks. The walk was uneven, and the school’s thick-trunked residents often tripped up citizens of Greenfield in this way. Rev. Shepherd, in his musings, stumbled over a dislodged brick on the pavement, but a kind hand prevented him from tumbling to the ground.

“Rev. Shepherd, you are lost in thought.”

An angular hand grasped helpfully under the pastor’s elbow. A lanky frame leaned over the pastor’s head. Reginald Heeler lifted Rev. Shepherd to his feet again, and after a moment and a slight wink from Mr. Heeler to Rev. Shepherd, the two men continued into town together. The wink made Rev. Shepherd wonder if he’d missed a joke. One ministerial brown head and a second, nearly-black head now bent down together, peering at their pointed shoes, as the men paced in lock-step, their hands clasped behind their backs.

“Yes, Reggie. It’s this business at the college. Just when I was hoping things would settle down after the reconciliation.  You did hear that Juanita is coming tomorrow?  For the funeral?”

“Yes, I heard that we should expect Miss Jones’s arrival.” Mr. Heeler's voice was deep and measured.

“Have you met her? I don’t recall whether you were in Greenfield when she came last time.”

‘No, no,” Mr. Heeler answered. “I have not had the pleasure.  I’ve only heard Miss Jones described by friends who’ve known her these many years.”

“You mean that the Cloudees have told you what a terror she is.”

Mr. Heeler cleared his throat. “She sounds like a most interesting woman.”

“Have you talked with Cloudee since Jones’s death? What does he say?”

Mr. Heeler stopped and turned to face his companion. They were nearly eye to eye, but Mr. Heeler had a slight advantage. “He merely told me he had died.  Do you have some particular concern?”  Mr. Heeler’s interest was now piqued. His left eye flickered.

They had stopped directly in front of the college gate.  The campus pecan trees spread their long arms over the shady lawn where Sam and Athena had picnicked on their dates.  Squirrels dashed along the branches and leapt to the ground. The library columns shone white in the sun. Sam looked at all this pensively.

“Do you know whether the denomination – your denomination – has found anyone for the post yet?” he asked.

“It’s a bit early! He’s not buried yet,” Reginald objected.

“Yes, I know,” Sam said. “But some people will not be so slow. Some people with closer connections will have already begun the process of filling the office.”  He glanced at his friend’s eyes with a pained look.

“Ah.”  Mr. Heeler understood.  “And why do you tell me?”

“Dr. Cloudee needs to be anticipating this situation, in my opinion. He should be proactive, I believe.”

They continued to walk. Mr. Heeler gazed also at the college grounds.  “This is a lovely setting.  You attended here, Rev. Shepherd?”

“Yes. Sometimes a smaller campus is more pleasant, more personal. I met my wife here.”

“I can’t help wondering if the college and seminary will remain open, you know. In the larger denominational scheme of things, there hardly seems a need. The campuses could be sold, and we have better facilities in Atlanta. I’m certain Dr. Cloudee and the other members of the Appointments Committee are considering this eventuality.”

“But -- “

“And in light of that, I doubt that Miss Jones’s aspirations matter much, one way or the other,” Mr. Heeler concluded.

“Good day,” he added, and left Rev. Shepherd at the corner of Leach and College streets.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

It's a Bloomin' World!

From a walk with the dog, and a bike ride, I present to you some of our bloomin' world in Oriental.
These azaleas are in our yard.

Today, they're in fuller bloom. This was a couple of days ago.

Over at the Woman's Club, one azalea bush is solid deep pink. Isn't it amazing?

The little sign in the flower bed says, "Welcome," so I felt they wouldn't mind if Sandy posed in their grass.

The dogwoods are bursting now too.

These tulips are so unusual!

I do admire Southern gardeners who don't mind the horrific heat and produce beds like this:

I do not have the stamina to garden in the South!

Here's a gorgeous white azalea, matched by the white home behind it.

On a bike ride, I spotted this funny tree. Actually, it's two trees, planted close together.

I seem to recall it's some sort of apple because last fall I picked up fruit from under it.

This is an empty lot. I think a home used to be there. A small split-rail fence lies in front, and a large Lady Banks rose bush drapes over it. Can you see it?

Here's the Lady Banks. I have a special place in my heart for this rose type because I had a huge one at our home in Statesville. I do miss it so.

This home has two magnificent specimens out front. I'm not sure what they are. We had one in Statesville that hung into our yard from our neighbors' yard. Big round blooms. I looked up its name once and have forgotten it.

In addition to azaleas, tulips, and dogwoods, the wisteria is out in all its glory. This area must be wisteria heaven. It climbs up poles and trees and covers it in bloom. Here's a small example.

And up close --

One neighbor lady has a lovely white wisteria, much more unusual.

Something about the shape and drape of wisteria has always deeply appealed to me. I think I wish my spirit were as relaxed, as restful, as the wisteria blooms.

I parked my bike by the Neuse. It's beauty doesn't appear for two weeks and then drop to the ground. It's always abloom.

Greenfield Civil Wars: Chapter Two

(Other chapters of this book can be found by clicking the box above, in the tab bar, called Greenfield Civil Wars.)

Chapter 2 -- Minding Babies

The rays of afternoon sun that greeted Dr. Cloudee’s eyes as he turned in at his garden gate, initiating a headache that would nag him the rest of the day, also sifted softly through the perky red gingham curtains in the kitchen at 117 Highland Circle. Two ladies sat before a table piled and overflowing with baby clothes. Slowly, to the rhythm of their conversation, they sorted and folded little shirts and tiny over-alls, placing them in plastic tubs.  This is Athena Shepherd, lowly pastor’s wife, and her dear friend, Connie Waight, whose yet more lowly husband is a student at Strong Seminary. The two women, whose little ones slept warmly together in the next room in a little crib, were unhappy.

Athena snapped a onesie into submission with one crisp flick of her wrists. Her red mop of hair bounced in its ponytail. “We’ve been having this rummage sale at Mt. Moriah’s for thirty years at least! There’s no reason to haul all our things up to Leach Street, just to have all the sales go into their offering plates! Honestly, Connie, we have to say something. Sam will just let it happen and never utter a word.”  Sam Shepherd is Athena’s devoted husband, and pastor of Mt. Moriah Presbyterian Church.  Mt. Moriah, you understand, is a small flock lately brought into the larger denomination by the bumpy reconciliation process. Many of the old SNARKians live with the unsettled expectation of being absorbed wholly into the SNACK hive. This they stubbornly resist. Athena, being a red-haired Scottish lass, resists more firmly than most. Her friend Constance spends much of her time easing Athena’s outbursts of indignation.

“But we’ll get more customers there, Athena. And they do have such a large fellowship hall – and air conditioned!”  Connie smoothed a frilly dress that Athena had folded badly. 

“But we have nicer things,” Athena countered.

“And they sort theirs into sizes, and price each item.” Connie looked at her tidy stack of bloomers on a chair.

“But,” Athena attempted.

“And,” Connie interrupted, “they have food.”

That, of course, was the trump card.  People always came for food.

“What kind of food?” 

Connie smirked.  “It doesn’t much matter what kind of food, you know.  Probably store-bought cookies and watery lemonade. But people will walk a mile if it’s free.”

They sat quietly for a moment, each one rumbling in her thoughts. Their eyes met over a stack of bibs.

“If we had homemade …” Connie began.

“…cookies,” Athena added.

“Or, or … donuts …”

“Donuts!” Athena spat out.  “Donuts are hard!”

Connie snapped a lid on her container of clothes. A baby cried.

“We’ll have punch to their lemonade, cake to their cookies, and popcorn to their crackers.  What do you say?”

“Deal!”  Athena exclaimed.  Both babies cried.

Ten minutes later, the babies were changed, comforted, and lying in the playpen in the middle of the kitchen linoleum, with bottles in their fists. Connie embarked on the next topic.

“What will your Aunt Hipp say to our plan?”  Athena Shepherd’s aunt was wife to the president of Strong Seminary. Willina Hipp was a force worth considering before any ecclesiastical action could be taken within the city limits of Greenfield.

“Auntie Willie will have to be got around,” Athena admitted. The niece never used such a familiar name in her aunt’s presence. She was always addressed as Aunt Hipp. To her husband, Athena would occasionally call her by her favorite title, Hippy.  “She doesn’t much like Leach Street, although she and Mrs. Cloudee are friendly enough. She’s only supported joining the rummage sales because she hates Mt. Moriah’s fellowship hall.”

“Well, she’s right, you know,” Connie interrupted. “It’s pokey and dark, and hot in the afternoon. And we’re well off the beaten path out here, Athena.  If people weren’t expecting our sale every year in the middle of May, we’d have a hard time attracting any crowd at all.”

Athena contemplated her baby’s face. He already resembled his father, with fair skin and dark brown eyes. “I can’t stand to move it from the church,” she said softly, wondering if baby would also have her dearest’s thick brown hair. “But it’s worse to have it fail altogether.” She picked up the baby and kissed his head, waiting just a moment to smell where she had kissed. “I wonder if Hippy would like to move our sale to the seminary?”

Connie slapped her knee.  Both babies jumped. “That’s it! A new sale, on the seminary grounds, while the students are still here – what a great idea! Do you think she’ll go for it?”

“Oh, she’ll go for it,” Athena replied.  “She’ll go for it because she’ll be in charge.”

This felicitous thought was abruptly broken by Baby Waight’s throwing up noisily in the playpen. “Oh!” said Connie, leaping up.

Baby Shepherd, having grasped the edge of the tablecloth in his tight fist, succeeded in pulling the cloth and three piles of folded clothing off the table to the floor, as his mother stood to help her friend. Small babies can create chaos more quickly than any other force of nature. At this moment, Sam Shepherd entered his kitchen.

“Goodness, ladies! I think it looks worse than when I left after lunch!”

Athena gave her husband the exasperated sound that only wives can give. He decided to help. As he heaped recently-folded infant clothing onto a chair, Athena tried to re-fold them just as fast.

“We’re moving the rummage sale to the seminary, Sam. What do you think?”

“You’d better hold off on that, Athena.  President Jones died this afternoon.  The visitation and funeral will occupy everybody for the next week.”

“But!” she began.

“Aunt Hipp will ask you to sing,” he added.

“Uhhh!” she exclaimed.

“And Juanita will be in town.”

“Oh, Sam.”  Athena plopped into a chair. “What a mess that will be.”

“Who’s Juanita?” Connie inquired.  She had stripped her baby down to her diaper and was wiping out her ears.

“Juanita Jones is Aunt Hipp’s best friend, college roommate, and Jeremiah Jones’s sister,” Sam provided.

“So?”

Athena shook her head.  “And Dr. Cloudee’s old flame from college days.  And when she comes, she never leaves.  How long was it last time, Sam?”

“Nineteen months, two weeks, and one day.”

“Oh my,” was all Connie could say.  Baby Waight burped on her shoulder.


Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

Greenfield Civil Wars: Chapter 1

(Other chapters of this book can be found by clicking the box above, in the tab bar, called Greenfield Civil Wars.)

Chapter 1 -- The Committee Meeting

Leach Street Presbyterian Church grew large, as so many southern churches did, in the 1950s. It added a wing for a pre-school, then a fellowship hall, and finally a gymnasium. The original structure dated from 1879, when large beige stones and square towers were deemed the only style for proper worship. The Leach Street sanctuary nestled comfortably among its dozen or so oak and pecan trees, and until the church’s membership became avid addicts of modern air conditioning, the annual church picnic was held under the trees’ approving branches on an expansive lawn. Then the church ladies moved the event into the fellowship hall, and except for the little boys who insisted on eating their hotdogs under a spreading magnolia tree, the congregation lost both the ambience and friendliness of the grounds. For decades, the congregation’s newly baptized babies had cooed in its grasses, its children hid and sought among its box shrubs, and its teenagers sneaked kisses in the shadows of its high walls. Soon they strolled soberly up its red, carpeted aisle in pairs, gazed at the rose window’s twinkling light on the minister’s white head, and took their sacred vows. Within a year or two, each couple began the cycle anew, and thus Leach Street Presbyterian expanded its membership by using the method that is gently called “family evangelism.” Unlike other southern churches, now dwindled into empty wings and rusting gyms, Leach Street reached so prominent a size in so few years that it catapulted past the recent decline in church attendance, and now has an active membership of over 350, with 200 faithful worshipers. The buildings are paid for, the pastor has salary enough to satisfy his wife’s need for shoes and has bought his own home, and the old church manse is used to house Leach Street’s associate pastor, Mr. Reginald Heeler.

A mere assistant at so large a church ought not to be mentioned so early in our narrative, but Mr. Heeler is worth noting. He is an up-and-coming young man, lately from the elevated seminary in Atlanta and fresh from his first slim work in a country church. Mr. Heeler feels his upward movement.  He stands tall and strides quietly through the streets of his new town, nodding to parishioners in a somber way. His dark, wavy hair endeared him immediately to the young women of the congregation. Mr. Heeler is not a fussy man, but he is meticulous about his clothing. He begins each day with a suit, greets the afternoon with a change into a sport coat, and invariably relaxes into his evening with a golf shirt and a pipe. He has never played golf but feels the shirts give the right impression and may prompt an invitation. He is an ambitious man, with a gleaming eye and a ready handshake. And although, dear readers, I cannot approve entirely of his ladder-climbing tendencies, I must concede that Reginald Heeler is not a greedy man. He is not a lecherous man. And in spite of his one flaw, a twitch that makes his left eye wink involuntarily, the maidens of Leach Street are safe from him for the present. He has one desire, and that is the pulpit in the sanctuary, complete with its ancient Bible, its black robe and the mystic sunlight streaming through the rose window. But Mr. Heeler is a patient man. He is happy in his post. Knowing that he sleeps each night beneath the rafters that once sheltered the snoring patriarchs of so grand a church as Leach Street, gives him satisfaction. Indeed he and the present pastor, Dr. Cloudee, share a driveway with only the slimmest of grassy patches between their homes. Both men feel the proximity keenly.

The remainder of Dr. Cloudee’s staff at the church consists of humble, hard-working folk who desire to serve God’s kingdom.  Their diligence has produced the increased population of his flock.  They mow the grass upon which the babies loll, and clean the carpet upon which the young couples process. They type their pastor’s sermons and fetch his coffee. He appreciates particularly his director of music and worship, Mr. Shrilling.  He and Dr. Cloudee meet almost daily to discuss the music. And although the pastor may not resonate forth the truth as an Apollo, his musical assistant in these holy services has the gifts of Orpheus. Indeed, when the sermon is likely to reduce a few worshipers into light slumber, and yes, even deeper thralls of rest, the mighty Orpheus at his organ can rescue them from the bonds of reverie and return them to the land of the living. The power of the organ, dear readers, with its four manuals, forty stops, and ranks of pipes above Dr. Cloudee’s head, is greater far than one elderly voice, albeit enhanced by the helpful knobs in the sound booth. Dr. Cloudee and Mr. Shrilling have yet to reach a truce, much less a partnership, in their efforts. However, all their battles, alliances and out-flankings I cannot now discuss, for more urgent matters at the church occupy us today. The presbytery committee on Posts and Appointments is hasting to the church facility for a special called meeting. Dr. Cloudee is handing each member in through the side door. He has received news that Jeremiah Jones, our friend, president of the local Presbyterian college, clings to life by a thread at the county hospital; an undiagnosed heart condition has leveled him, and he is not expected to live. A year earlier, his medical status would have mattered little to those who pace the halls of Leach Street Presbyterian and its placid grounds, except as a sad piece of community news.  A year earlier, the church and the college were members of separate and unaffiliated denominations, although merely five blocks apart.  The denominational merger, a reconciliation of theology (if not of minds) had overcome all opposition at the synodical level, and one united Presbyterian body emerged. This awkward union was now four months old. In the process, the larger clan of Presbyterians, of which Leach Street was a prominent member, had unwillingly adopted the smaller clan’s twin educational institutions.  Our dying friend, with whom we are barely acquainted, presided over one of these two.

Needless to say, the presbytery committee on Posts and Appointments was unhappy to find itself in the thankless position of choosing a president for a college of little significance.  Its annual budget ran not a half million a year! It claimed fewer than 300 students.  Still, the job must be done. A college near the end of its year must not be without a leader. They met secretly, however, because the man did yet breathe, and unwilling to seem too hasty, or too eager, they sat with Dr. Cloudee in the inner sanctum of his session room.

“How shall we proceed, gentlemen?”  Dr. Cloudee asked. “Whom do we know who could fill this post?” He picked at his clean fingernails and then drummed his fingers on the oak table.

“It is hardly an important position,” noted the gentleman on his right, who sported the red vest of the Covenanters. “Nobody knows about this little college.  Any retired pastor would do.”

The young and energetic pastor across from him disagreed. “We can hardly assume that the college will remain as it is,” he began.  “Now that it is joined with the SPSNAAC, its future may be bright.  Why, they anticipate a 4% growth this fall!” He wore a deep green vest, with a bright silver thistle pin on its breast.

The SPSNAAC, dear readers, is the Scottish Presbyterian Synod of North America and Canada.  In less formal circles, it is known simply as SNACK. SNACK is the larger, younger, and more dynamic of the denominations.

“Our joint denomination should nurture the college and seminary along,” the young enthusiast continued.  “The proper choice for this post is a man with vision and spirit.”

Dr. Cloudee rumbled. “But surely our own institutions will absorb them, brothers.  I imagine in only a few years, Hezekiah College and Strong Seminary will both merge with their larger, sister institutions in Atlanta, our own schools. How can we ask any rising man in the denomination to assume a temporary post at a dying college?” Dr. Cloudee was speculating, of course. He’d heard no hint of such plans from Jeremiah Jones.

From the names of the schools, you may gather that the founder of the brotherly denomination, now defunct, was an upright and well-regarded man.  Hezekiah Strong lived in the misty crags of Scotland many centuries before.  His rugged rebellion and ringing voice against tyranny birthed a little band of believers.  It grew to a clan of Christians, and named itself the Scottish Northern Association of Reformed Covenanters, or SNARC. In the New World, he lent half his name to a little college, and the other half to a little seminary.

The committee members interrupted each other, stuck to their guns, altered their positions, and generally so confused each other that no one seemed to know how to come to any resolution. Dr. Cloudee was concerned.  Many of the gentlemen seemed intent at least in filling the post. The best he could do was to delay that assignment for the near future. If he delayed effectively, it is possible the college would gently fold its ancient doors during the summer, and send its students to richer pastures in Atlanta.  The college grounds, which could easily be adapted to suit some of the needs of Leach Street Presbyterian Church, were most lovely. “The college soccer field across the street from our gymnasium is particularly fine,” he had often thought. Dr. Cloudee rumbled deeply in his throat. The table silenced.

“Gentlemen, no action can be taken now, while the current president remains in such a tenuous state. This meeting is at best preliminary. Since I am here on the scene, unless anyone objects, I will notify the committee of any changes in the situation.  We will meet again at a later date.” 

The meeting adjourned.  The young member left first, twirling his thistle pin and unsettled in mind. Delay and indecision were always abhorrent to him. But Dr. Cloudee lingered with three of his old friends, classmates from seminary days. His comrade in the red vest clapped him soundly on the back.

“Golf next Saturday, James?  My knee’s on the mend, and I think my swing is back!”

“Yes, indeed,” Cloudee replied. “Next Saturday. 7:00.  I'll reserve the tee time. Don’t be late.”  The other men agreed to join them.  James Cloudee locked the church doors and strolled to his home two blocks away on Ivy Lane. Well he knew that if anyone asked, he could say that the committed had met promptly, discussed the matter thoroughly, and were considering options. “A very satisfactory afternoon,” he thought.

An irritating buzz vibrated against his leg.  He slapped at his thigh in alarm, thinking a diabolical hornet was after him.  Then sheepishly he dug into his pants pocket and extracted The Nuisance.  His secretary Hilda had insisted that he carry this hand-held plague, a cell-phone.

Dr. Cloudee opened the phone, and holding it in front of his face, yelled into it, “Hello?”

The quiet voice that answered him brought ill news.  Jeremiah Jones, the college president, had died.


Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

Greenfield Civil Wars: Prologue

(The rest of this book can be found by clicking the box above, in the tab bar, called Greenfield Civil Wars.)

Prologue

Dr. Jeremiah Jones sat at a back table in Cracker Barrel, nursing his cold coffee. Outside the window, past the chained rocking chairs, Atlanta in December was damp, dreary, and gray.  Dr. Jones was a man out of his element, under the shadow of the big city’s sky scrapers and away from his home town’s shady oaks. He was from Greenfield, Georgia, a few miles up the road. Across the room, two kids played checkers, and Dr. Jones turned when one of them let out a “whoop!” of victory. His heart felt the dreariness of the weather, not the victory of the checkers champion. The three men with whom he’d shared his table were gone after a grueling two-hour meal, and he took time to ruminate on their meeting. He found himself shaking his head in dismay. He was unwillingly at the center of a swirling whirlwind of church politics. On this dreary December day, the swirl was a mere dusting up of words, but still, Dr. Jones did not like it.

He knew he’d lost the argument, and in the end he’d lost his college. As its president, this was his last-ditch effort to argue with the higher-ups for its value, its necessity, its life.  Dr. Jones was not a clever man. He was, at heart, a conciliator, a friendly man. Friendliness was no help to him here, in the arena of church politics. No one but these four men from Cracker Barrel now knew that Hezekiah College was in its early death throes. It was a heavy burden for Dr. Jones to bear. He’d been at the college for thirty-four years, first as an admissions representative, then as a fund-raising publicity man, and finally as its top administrator. Dear reader, he had done a fine job. A bachelor, Dr. Jones had thrown himself into the school’s success, nurtured its faculty, coddled its students, stroked the egos of its donors. Nurturing, coddling and stroking were his best skills, not aggressive defense and political maneuvering. He’d made his earnest case; what more can one simple man do?

The waitress sidled up to his table, slapped the ticket by his coffee cup, and asked, “You want a warm-up?” He nodded. She poured.

“And some more cream,” he asked.

She smacked her gum in reply and strolled to the kitchen.

These men were strangers to him, Christian brothers sent to deliver the verdict privately. “Henchmen,” he thought. They did not know the college, did not know Greenfield, his little town. He thought of the shady streets, the azalea-dotted lawns. The elderly friends who’d given generously to endow the school – how would he explain that their money, their loyalty, would be absorbed by strangers? Now he would participate in the demise. Two years, they’d given him, two long years of slow death. They wanted to do this thing quietly, and they needed two years to transfer students slowly, win donors cautiously. He was the key, they said – he would be the gentle hospice nurse, a comforter but in the end the friend who deals the death blow. He felt like a pawn.

Only days before, larger decisions by denominational heads had engulfed his world. Two like-minded Presbyterian denominations joined their strengths, a new denomination was born, and Presbyterians across the South were caught in a flood of celebration. But all changes, and especially political ones, have casualties. Hezekiah College would soon be a casualty. He was not man enough to challenge these heavy waves of change. Another man, another president, possibly could fight the good fight and save the school. Dr. Jones felt his inadequacy. He knew this was his battle, and he was already losing it. There was nothing left to do but preside over the funeral of his precious school.

For a moment, he wondered what he would do for himself. He was near retirement, but not near enough. Too old for a career change, too old for the mission field. Too young to move in with his sister and tend rose beds. He’d never set aside money for a house, or even saved for a rainy day. The college didn’t pay much, but he’d never needed much either. He rotated his coffee cup slowly, peering into its black depths. How many years since he’d felt this uncertain? Already he sensed the cords that tied him to his familiar place loosening, letting him go.

“God will have a plan,” he mumbled to himself. “He always has a plan.”

“Um hm,” the waitress replied, and plopped two creamers on the table.

The rain stopped as Dr. Jones drove back to Greenfield. He came to no conclusion about his future, made no plans. He did decide to keep his counsel to himself. No one in Greenfield would discover the fate of the college yet, if he could help it. Two years was a long time; perhaps God would intervene somehow. His pale palms gripped the steering wheel, and he pursed his lips. Keeping secrets is lonely business, but Jeremiah Jones was used to being alone. As he drove down College Street in the late afternoon, the live oaks of his yard arching grandly on his left, he saw the spire of the Presbyterian church on Leach Street, pointing heavenward. Above it, holding up the sky, was the brightest rainbow he’d ever seen.


Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

Plain Talk from Ms. Trunk:

(This entire text is from Penelope Trunk's Homeschool blog today. She's so blunt, so honest, and I think there's truth here. Without further ado, her thoughts on 'The Difficult Child':)

"To be clear, my older son is medicated for anxiety. So it's not that I think kids are born without problems. But I think the idea of a difficult child comes after the idea that kids are there to accommodate the lives of parents. My kids are never difficult unless I ask them to do stuff that is boring to them. School is incredibly boring to most boys. Which is why so many boys are medicated for ADHD.

"Don't tell me boring is acceptable, expected, part of adult life. There is no model for adult life where we think boring is good. No adults want to be bored. So why tell kids they need to learn to accept being bored? As adults, we decide what we want from our days and we put up with things we don't like in order to get what we want. Kids don't need to learn to be bored. Kids need to learn to identify what they want so much that they'd be willing to be bored to get it.

"So the difficult child is the child who is being asked to do things that aren't right for that child. Maybe the child needs medication. You know how you can tell? If medication improves the child's ability to cope. The Week reports that 40% of kids medicated for ADHD don't stop showing signs of it in the classroom, and then they get categorized and difficult and unmanageable.

"But if you take a kid out of school then there is little chance that they will need medicine in order to cope with playing all day. Some kids will. Those are the ones who need medication. The New York Times quotes Dr. Michael Anderson attacking the issue head on: 'We've decided as a society that it's too expensive to modify the environment so we are modifying the kid.'

"So if you have a child who is difficult, take the kid out of school. Let the kid do whatever he or she wants, and watch what happens. It's much easier for parents to call a kid difficult because if you call the environment difficult, you have to remove the kid from the environment, and that means no more free babysitting."

 Did you read that? 'We've decided as a society that it's too expensive to modify the environment so we are modifying the kid.'