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Sept. 5, 2012 Memorial Service

September 6, 2012

PHOTO MONTAGE

The Rev. Janis Yskamp officated Sept. 5, 2012 at a Chapel memorial Eucharist for Sara C. Oldberg at St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Wellsboro, PA. It was a simple and moving service with no sermon, as requested.

The 7PM service was held with all the building's doors wide open; a lovely, late-summer evening breeze stirred the fresh air resting upon the Town Green, which the Chapel overlooks.

Using the Book of Common Prayer, the service was based on the Burial Office which begins on page 492. The Collect used appears at the bottom of page 493.

All of the readings and prayers were suitable for a departed loved one who had been baptized as a child and whose faith as an adult was a private matter. Reading the lessons was The Rev. Dee Calhoun. Prayers for Sara's loved ones were included.

The Old Testament reading was Isaiah 25:6-9 followed by Psalm 46 BCP pg. 649.

The New Testament reading was 1John 3:1-2 followed by Psalm 106 v 1-5, BCP pg. 741.

The Gospel, read by Mo. Janis, was John 14:1-6, followed by the Apostles Creed BCP pg. 496.

Then followed prayers beginning on BCP pg. 497.

Holy Eucharist was Prayer B, BCP pg. 397 (preface BCP pg 498)

The post-communion prayer is found on BCP pg. 498.

The concluding blessing is found on BCP pg. 500.

Attendees included people she had met on her visit to St. Paul's shortly after Greg began his ministry here, and my Service Dog Faulkner greeted everyone.

Displayed in the Chapel were Mom's high school portrait and a picture from a visit to Hallberg Lane during the first year of our marriage. Also displayed was our wedding photo which her effects had included; it shows Greg and I with Fr. Setmeyer and thumbnails of herself (looking very happy) and Tom and Carol surrounding us in the corners.

Following the service, The Reverends Yskamp and Calhoun anointed me and prayed for my upcoming surgery, which Mom had enthusiastically supported.

Additional prayers honoring Sara will be offered at the Sept. 8 Eucharist by The Rev. Gregory P. Hinton.

~Susan

Mom and Her Boys

April 23, 2012

On long Diocesan drives, and thru our rural home-county, we listen to free, public-domain audtiobooks. This week it was The Trail of the Axe by Ridgwell Cullum: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36522 . A 4AM passage, one late night last week, reminded me powerfully of Mom's way with Dave and, I am sure, Tom and Nick.

Below is the part that spoke to me, and evoked her as my own excellent role model.

~Susan

.... The pivot of her life was her boy. A pivot upon which it revolved without flagging or interruption. She had watched him grow to a magnificent manhood, and with all a pure woman's love and wonderful instinct she had watched and tended him as she might some great oak tree raised from the frailest sapling. Then, when his struggles came, she had shared them with him with a supreme loyalty, helping him with a quiet, strong sympathy which found expression in little touches which probably even he never realized. All his successes and disasters had been hers; all his joys, all his sorrows. And now, in her old age, she clung to this love with the pathetic tenacity of one who realizes that the final parting is not far distant.

Her furrowed face lit with a wonderful smile.

"I cannot say for sure," she said. "There are times when Dave will not admit me to the thoughts which disturb him. At such times I know that things are not running smoothly. There are other times when he talks quite freely of his hopes, his fears. Then I know that all is well. When he complains I know he is questioning his own judgment, and distrusts himself. And when he laughs at things I know that the trouble is a sore one, and I prepare for disaster. All his moods have meaning for me. Just now I am reading from his silence, and it tells me that much is wrong, and I am wondering. But I do not think it concerns Betty—and, consequently, not your husband; if anything were wrong with her I think I should know." She smiled with all the wisdom of old age.

Mom didn't miss much, but she was so respectful of boundaries (a Carpenter characeristic) about what she SAID. She was a firm believer in people's need and ability to learn from their own mistakes. (She told me that her own darling father had taught her this.)

Thanks, again, Mom!

 

PICKLES AND PIE PANS

April 14, 2012

This is a piece I drafted years ago for eventual gathering into a book of memories of our ministry times in Wellsboro. Of course it exaggerates shamelessly; names are changed to protect the individuals’ privacy.

The “Millie” in this piece represents a score of women I have lumped into one “piece,” all of whom generously still help “raise me right” as a newcomer they‘d called to their Boro.

We buried the woman I called "Millie" a few days ago, amid a barrage of travel demands in our email. For ten whole minutes I got to sit in the service Greg led, remembering MY Mom.

~S~

P I C K L E S   A N D   P I E   P A N S


My dearly loved friend,

I thank you for your letter. Your words sparkled with all the clarity I've come to recognize as your hallmark stamped on a thought. I feel quite unequal to the task of replying with like clarity, and I seem to have forgotten momentarily what my own hallmark might be.

I'm thinking now of sweet old Millie Branson, our dear parishioner, who gives a million jars of pickles, all different recipes, in jars of every make as she's collected them through the years... pickles sweetened with honey or sugar or cane syrup... pickles dilled with garlic and without... pickles sliced, whole, large, gherkin... smooth pickles from early-gathered cukes, pickles that crunch, pickles that squish, pickles that chew, pickles that melt...

They are all pickles, all green, all in jars full of the pickle juice du jour.

One naturally wants to exercise stewardship over such gifting. And one naturally wants to express appreciation and admiration, anew, each and every time, because Millie's memory is such that she does not recall that she has given you “hundreds” of such jars on past occasions.

Each gift feels, to her, like the first time she's blessing you with her wonderful pickles. And all she really wants back are the empty jars-- to give them again, of course, pickle-packed.

Yes... the neighborly, natural thing would be to see the blessing she's bestowed. The thing is, though, once she's got you on her pickle list, she's stuck in giving mode, and you could just about pickle-fill your belly on a daily basis. But you can't live on pickles alone. She must assume, if she thinks at all about how many jars you've stowed down cellar, that you entertain an awful lot. As she herself probably did, once upon a younger time.

I bet most people fill the emptied jar with their own prize-winning recipe, and return it to her with a pretty ribbon tied 'round the fabric-wrapped lid. That's the way here. It must go on all year, too-- WalMart never seems to put the canning supplies away with the seasonal stock!

Millie must have a really wonderful cellar of her own, too, by now-- jams, jellies, beans, sauces, chili peppers.... even a flatlander like myself can see the sense in the system. All she really needs to make are pickles, and pickles must fascinate her, for you can always count on Millie's Pickles at the parish picnic in July-- every year, five or six new delights she's created.

Making her specialty, she can get back everything a body needs to live. (I'm sure there are even people who plow her driveway when they bring back the boxful of pickle jars!) Yes, the system is fine-- she's just a bit stuck now on the "Must Give Pickles" side of the exchange.


She's lived by this system for so long that I'm sure she accurately understands that when a cloth-covered pie turns up on her doorstep, someone is saying anonymously, "I'm sorry, I broke your pickle jar, but I baked you a pie and please keep my best pie pan, too." I bet if I dropped in on her today to bring her an audiotape with the Saturday night service's music, I'd find her with someone’s fresh pie-- all ready to cut for company.

Some of us "just-arrived" newcomers take a long time to discover our own special recipe to put in Millie's jars. That's fine with Millie, as long as she gets the jars back. (After all, not everyone is smart enough to have been born and raised here, and grow up knowing everyone does have something they will give, their whole life long.) She's happy just to have the jars back, actually.

I suspect that even without the return of the jars, she's happy just to give her pickles-- what better gift could one give, after all, than the best pickles in the county?

These ways are so automatic among the natives, so ingrained-- so inbred-- that she would be completely baffled if I asked her about this.

Millie's lesson is totally contained in each jar.


I see that I'm having a little trouble getting the giving end right, myself; I suspect I may be involved in several out-of-balance economies, as a clergy-spouse is always outnumbered. But I know a local expert who can speak to me in the kinds of words I use, and I think I will ask her to tell me more of Millie and the way people here manage to give what they have harvested.

Her special recipe is helpful words, wrapped not in calico but in smiles and hugs.


In the meantime I will add your peck to her store down cellar and return the jars as they are emptied. Your jars have the cutest labels you know, and I do love pickles!

You must come to one of St. Paul’s parish picnics too, with your pickles. Do try to come soon, while Millie is still able to be with us!

Oh-- and do keep the pie pan!


All my love, always,


Susan 

At Millie's funeral, the young matriarch-in-training whose Mom we were gathered to remember laughed with tears of joy as I shared a short "pickle" memory. I wish you all could know the comfort of this amazing coimmunity of dear, dear people. They'd all remind you of Mom.

(C) 2012 Susan O. Hinton

April 14, 2012

This is a story you are all free to read... or ignore.

When we first moved here I hoped Mom would join us-- it felt so like "Carpenter Country." And I missed her a lot-- we were especially close around the time Greg and I got married and, almost overnight, got into the Search process that landed us here. So we talked often; "Only when you really want to, dear," she would say, and then be tickled that I DID want to.

I used to regale her with stories about the people here, just like Camp tales told after dark with the uncles. Later a lot of them got written down. 

Near the end of this one, it becomes clear how it relates to clutter, because THIS is how MY porch gets put to bed for the winter.

~S~

===

NINJA LUKE, PENNSYLTUCKY MAN

Over the years we've lived here (since '94), the original landlady's vision has been fulfilled over and over again, and it typifies life here in Pennsyltucky (their proud name for our county, not mine).

In '94 Greg was Called here. We needed housing, and on the quick-- sight unseen. This house was coming open for rent around the time we needed it. From Park Ridge I called Iris, the owner, with all my tenant's-rights/advocacy experience close at hand. We discussed what we needed, and what they could offer. (I thought it was a simple business transacation. I was so wrong!)

After matters were happily concluded, I said, "OK, then, we just need to sign the lease; can you mail it to us here in Chicagoland?"

Iris laughed-- a matriarch's old-lady-wisdom laugh. "Honey, we do things here on a handshake. You come on ahead. I expect the people in it now will be gone in time." (They weren't, so Greg threw a mattress I'd hauled on the last visit onto the floor, in an empty room, and bunked with them for the 2 weeks it took their new house to be completed.)


We really enjoyed Iris and Walter. (I wrote about Walter once, in "Them Ducks.") Iris pretty much homebound now,  and it's her farmer-son Bruce (our age) who wears the landowner hat. Bruce succeeded Walter as Farmer, aftre Greg buried Walter.


Well, over the years we've helped show Bruce's kids some of the facts of adult life, because he did the same for us. I suspect that my son Dave still thinks of Bruce as one of his dads.

Bruce and Peggy had four strapping young men, now, at various ages of development. Peg died suddenly in February, 2013. The year I describe here it was their youngest, Luke (in HS), who they sent down when we needed help in a hurry. (Just like Greg still helps Bruce in a hurry now that our teens have "flew the coop".) It's a reciprocal relationship very common here.

Why is Luke "Ninja Luke"?

Over the summer I urgently needed an item from the house while we were on vacay, camping. Luke had been designated "housewatcher" for that year (we had another petcare helper, tho usually that has been the chore of one of these helpful young men). So brave Luke, cellphone in hand, went on a hunt in the crazy and filthy house we'd fled on vacay, to locate the item.

By phone I guided him thru the maze of doors that divide off this house into sections within sections-- it's a 3-family structure we have now as a "single house."  (When the property was in active farm use it made sense. Now we use those doors to divide off kittehs and doggehs and sometimes folk musicians.)

It took awhile, and many turns, to get to the room I thought held the treasure.

I said, "I'm sorry the house is such a mess." He said, "No-- it's just a little like being a spy. I feel like a Ninja!" We both laughed. "Ninja Luke it is!"

(And he's HUGE-- in a dark alley he'd be so scary, because the good-hearted grin would be invisible. These four Berguson boys don't just wrassle cattle-- they lift weights for fun and bodybuilding!)

Well, the item was found and duly shipped, after his excellent independent research on how to send mail to a PA campground site-- we had no idea how, and that's another story!-- but a parishioner works for the parks so Luke just called him up.

A thank-you gift (per older brother Mark's recent, helpful guidance) went to the family. It was a "fat" note, get it? (The "chore" gratuity they insist they don't need but that any young man uses for gas money he may not tell the folks about.)

That fall, the next time I needed help, I called Luke's cell. "Are there any Ninjas around?" I asked. "As a matter of fact I have an hour later today," he said, "if that is when you could use a hand." At the agreed time he appeared, and blew thru what would have been a painful 6 hours for me. That day he also learned how to do a number of things. "Call me any time, I'm your Ninja;" he said, and frowned. "But don't you worry about money--- we really do have everything we need."


So this is Iris' youngest grandson, the last of four who have been continuing modeling her Country Living Curriculum. Each of them have been able to boss me like a man does here, and still respect me more than any man I have ever known elsewhere. You can't help but learn. They make me a Better Woman, and can always get around my stubborn insistence that while I understand they "can't be paid," I can't have help that ISN't "paid." But I get around them right back. (They teach me how.)


Ninja Luke was here today and has just left. He ran down on the hop to manhandle a dresser I'd thought I could unload-- and probably could have, if it hadn't been Saturday with tonight's service to save my back for. It was just like Luke. "Hi, it's Mrs. H," I said. "Hi," he said, "How are you?" "Well, I thought I was doing OK till I ran into a dresser it turns out I can't unload today." "Can I come right over?" he said. "Sure, I'll throw some clothes on." "OK," he said; and he gave me ten minutes and then showed up from his house which is a mere 2 minutes away.

"How should I do this?" he asked, because at home, his folks couldn't get him to help like this. (Sound famliar, eh. We couldn't get our boys to cooperate either, like other adults could.) So since I do not call very often, Luke has not had much experience handling non-farm, or non-athletic, heavy things.

"Well, you grab here and tilt here and walk it across the porch," I said, and gave the now-coming-out-of-my-van dresser a good tug where I'd taken out a drawer to make a grab-point. "Or I can push it out to you from the other end."

"Oh, OK, I see, I think I can get it." And out it came, and across the porch it walked, and he learned how to re-attach legs... and put in drawers... and put furniture cups between the legs and his dad's bluestone-flagged porch floor.... And I gave him a message for Mark who'd made a surprise visit home this weekend. (We have an internship/med school contact to pass along to Mark, in the parish.)


And THAT is how I "caught the flow" on what is the only warm and sunny day we have had, or may have, for quite some time.


Up on the hill behind, in Bruce's pasture, the beef cattle are trying to graze. They're running off some hanging weight, costing him dearly needed dollars, while gas drillers run machinery that I SWAR sounds just like a freight train taking all day to go by.

By the end of October, an enormous flamethrower will be sending "War of the Worlds" klieg-lights up into the reflective clouds to terrify us all. Again. And my drinking water will be even MORE fracked up, but then I'm ahead of the game-- I already cleared the new winter drinking-water counter in the laundry room-- the one rebuilt after the 2000 fire? Which blew THAT out.


One of the mutual appreciations between us and the "landlord" is the fact that we stayed in the house, post-fire, and paid rent while it was unfit to live in, and they had the lawsuit against us thrown out that they had not known their insurance company had begun-- oh my, Iris was SO MAD the day her lawyer told her about THAT after the year of depositions we endured!

"Why didn't you TELL me this was gong on?!?!?!" she said when she called us, from her lawyer's office.

"We thought you knew," we said, "and so we just tried not to worry."

Building codes here BTW are very funny-- sitting in the lawyer's office doing a deposition about "our" "poor" fire safety practices-- with the insurance lawyers-- Greg noticed we were all sitting right under the lawyer's VERY unsafely-installed AC. Well, the insurance lawyers weren't "from here." We laughed with the local lawywer (a friend) about that, the next time we saw him.


Some people understand that THESE are the people I choose to learn from, when it comes to life HERE, in the hills. My Mom sure did!

~Susan

(C) 2012, 2013 Susan O. Hinton

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