"Miracle on the Mountain"

Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a little. It wasn't such a big one; not like the fire that fell on Elijah's altar.Not exactly like when Mt. Sinai trembled and smoked.

But it was a little one; something out of the ordinary. And when you're like me, not really sure if you've ever seen a miracle, even the smallest one seems exceptionally special.

It happened like this.

 Several weeks ago, my two young "mountain men" apprentices (who for our purposes here we'll call Copernious and Austonio) and I headed out one Sat. morning for the Peaks of Otter. I mean how could you consider yourselves mountain men if every now and again you wouldn't actually climb one, right?

Move over Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay; you've got some up and coming competition!

We had done our preparations well. At least the most important ones. Like filling our packs with plenty of beef sticks, jerky, chips, cookies, a soda apiece and subs from Rosie's Cozy Kitchen. You know, the bare essentials from all the main food groups.

Now there are many terrible things that could happen to you on a dangerous mountain climb, things like falling off a cliff, getting lost, or getting et up by a bear. But dying of starvation would have to be the absolute  worst thing of all.

We looked at the map before we left. I told them that I sometimes like to find a "road less traveled" (who would have guessed it) to get where I'm going rather than always taking the big well traveled  all-so-boring highways.  

So instead of taking Rt.43 at Bedford and heading for the Peaks, we went on past a ways and turned off on a small country road and headed north. I had never been this way myself. It lead us thru some beautiful countryside and kept getting narrower and less populated until it finally turned to gravel.                 ( Mary always says that this is when I begin to get happy)

 Sitting right along side the road opposite  one of the last houses, was a very old truck, older than any I recognized. Maybe something out of the forties? It looked like it had just gotten parked there one day and there it still was. Gave you the feeling that time had maybe stood still up in this hollow.

After passing the last houses the road started heading up the mountain. And head up the mountain it did. There were a few places you could look down and see two or three curves below us where we had switchbacked our way thru just before. Copernious said he was getting some scared feelings about this route.

We did make it (which you've probably concluded by now) and actually came out right beside the Sharp Top parking lot without  ever getting on the Parkway or Rt. 43 either one. And that's not even the miracle yet.

Next was trying to decide how many clothes to leave on for the climb. It was cold at the bottom of the mountain so, as I figured, we left on one too many jackets and soon got too warm. We stopped by a rock in the middle of the trail (one we thought we'd recognize on the way down) and hid our coats up the bank a ways and covered them with leaves.

I know, you're trying to be patient about the miracle. That's just it; miracles don't happen very often to the impatient, so just try to stay calm.

We had climbed at least three fourths of the way up when we encountered a group of people stopped along the trail. Some on one side and some on the other. We started to make our way thru the group and were just about past the last few when one guy said to me, "Would you care to join us for a time of prayer?"

 I said sure, so we stopped on the uphill side of the group. And those in the group started praying, randomly one after the other.

Now these prayers weren't exactly like mine. These people went on thanking God for the lovely day, for His beautiful creation and the privilege we all have to be part of it. Just pure worship, plain and simple.

Now I believe all that same stuff too, but when I pray I get right down to business. "Lord, we've got a need here. We need strength to go on. Someone is in an extremely trying situation, Lord. Unless You put forth Your Hand to help us, we won't make it, Lord!"

So I was listening, drinking in the beauty in these prayers. I had a hard time not crying; it felt like God was meeting me on this mountain.

About this time, Copernious launched in praying. And lo and behold when he was done Austonio started in. You talk about something that made this old mountain man's heart about to pop!

I did gain my composure enough before the prayer meeting was done to pray myself  without blubbering. I prayed that just as we were on this climb today that we would take up the challenge of the "climb of life". And that we would encourage each other on the way. And that He would guide our steps so we do not stumble.

Finally the guy who was to close did so, and we were done. I thanked them and told them that I've spent some time in discouragement lately and this was a real encouragement to me.

I wondered too where they were from. I was thinking the whole time that this was one group, together. As they began to say where they were from, I realized that they weren't all one group. No, they said, some of us just met right here on the trail. One group heard someone in the other group say that this would be a good place to stop and have prayer. And the second group came along and asked if they could join them. And then we came along before they got started.

So we were at least three groups of strangers gathered on one mountain in the same prayer meeting. How many times has this happened to you? A small miracle, wouldn't you say?

Another thing really blessed me as we were chatting afterwards. One of the ladies (who we had passed a while before on the trail) said that when we passed by,both boys looked her full in the face and said a friendly hello. She said very few youngsters look at you with full, open faces these days.
She said that she thought to herself at the time, "These guys are believers!"

I told the boys on the way home how proud I was of them praying. Copernious said he figured that if these people are Christians and he's a Christian, he might as well. Austonio said that when Copernious prayed it gave him the courage to do the same.  I commended them on the friendly, open face thing as well.

It would have been a lovely day without the miracle. With it, the day was outstanding.

And from now on when I round that last turn before coming into Gladys, (where on clear days you can see the Peaks of Otter  looming up 50 or 60 miles away) I will always remember the "miracle on the mountain."

The children of Israel set up twelve stones for a monument; I'm gonna claim old Sharp Top for one of mine.

"December 11, 1976"

I remember it like it was yesterday.

Well, that may be stretching it. Let me start over. I remember it like it was day before yesterday. What I'm trying to say is that this date in ancient history is forever and indelibly impressed on my mind.

Because Mary and I got married on that day. And our marriage started out with a big bang, literally.

We had met in a nursing home, which I know seems odd and somewhat less than romantic. It happened like this.......... my friend Randy was working at Clyde Bender's nursing home in Stuarts Draft and he wanted to go to Bible School for three weeks. I to this day don't know what made me say it, but I told him I'd come up and take his place for those three weeks. I was shyer than a bashful church mouse so this was quite out of character for me.

Sure enough, Randy took me up on my offer.

Now Mary was from Harrisonburg and had recently moved to Draft to be the head cook at the home. I had met her only once before when a few of my friends and I had stopped in to visit Randy.

I had always thought I wouldn't be able to stand working in a nursing home. All the strange moaning and groaning from the residents who weren't in their right minds. And the smell.....

But I can honestly say I learned to love it. There were enough residents in their right minds to interact with and you learned to love the others as well.

There were some sad ones, too. Like Elsie Dunn. She would walk up and down the halls saying to anyone who would listen about how she was from Sowth Hill, Vahginnya. And she's got a dayeed husband. And her people don't love her and just put her ovah heah. And she shore would like to have an oatmeal suppah.

There was a very cultured blind lady there, Mrs. Hartley. She would follow me to the table at meal time by placing her hand on my shoulder. Almost always she would exclaim, "Heavens! I've never felt a shoulder so bony!" (I probably weighed about 140 back then) And when Frank Zuantner, (who ate his food without chewing) would begin to choke and make all sorts of terrible sounds, she would exclaim, "Heavens! What kind of a place am I in!??"

 I realize that this is more information than you need to know, but I do know for sure that Frank COULD actually eat  lima beans without chewing them, as I saw some once that had made the full digestive circuit and still looked none the worse for the wear. (Did I mention that nursing home work wasn't for the faint hearted?)

I could tell you about Mrs. Cunningham, and Mr. Rohrer. And Mr. Strickland who was a professor at the University of Richmond. He had suffered a breakdown of some sort and was at the home  for rehabilitation. He later went back to his job at the college.

But I  really need to get on with my story. I learned to know Mary there as well.  She was, well, not like any other girl I knew. Of course I didn't know many girls (I was petrified of them) and the ones I did know had church mouse personalities sort of like mine.

She was outgoing without being bold. She was feisty and  could hold her own in most any argument. She was a dedicated and hard worker and a mighty good cook. I enjoyed being around her.

One mealtime at the home we were serving the residents and Mary was telling Sharon about the taffy pull they were having at her youth group at Harrisonburg.  And since it was leap year the girls had to ask a boy to pull taffy with her. No way was she going to do that, she said. Sharon pipes up, "I bet Merle would go with you, now wouldn't you Merle?"

What could I say? So I said sure, I'd go along.

Sharon and Irvan went along too that night. We pulled taffy and all Mary's friends pulled her aside when they had the chance and asked her if there was something to this. She assured them it was just a convenience arrangement so she wouldn't have to ask a guy.

On the way back home we had to pick up Mary's car which had been in Harrisonburg for repairs. We knew Sharon and Irvan would like to be by themselves so Mary and I rode home in her car. By now she was beginning to wonder if there was something to this after all. But of course I'm slow and haven't got there yet.

But sometime during the night it dawns on me that, you know, I really like this girl. So the next day I ask her if she wants to go to Gladys with me on Sunday. She accepts (and all her friends think she lied to them the night before) and the rest, as they say, is history.

That was a long, round about way of getting to Dec. 11, 1976.  (I have a weakness for rabbit trails, I know)

Anyway, we got married at the Bank Church on that date. My dad preached something about Isaac finding a wife. Lloyd Horst pronounced us man and wife. And we headed to Turner Ashby High School  for the reception.

About 3:00 or so we left and headed across the mountain towards West Va. where we had a cabin rented. A mile or two before Franklin, West Va. it was almost dark and was just beginning to rain when two deer popped out of  nowhere right in front of the car. I'm sure everyone who hears this story wonders if for sure I had my eyes on the road and paying full attention to my driving. And since I don't believe in swearing, I will absolutely affirm that I can answer to the positive on both accounts.

They first deer made it across. The second wasn't so lucky. Neither were we.

Out of instinct I hit the brakes. Hit them too hard for the wet road. (this was before the days of anti-lock brakes) The second deer hit on the front drivers corner of the car and with the brakes locked it spun us around half a turn and we rammed the bank on the opposite side of the road going backwards. A man outside his house on the hill above the road saw it happen and said when we hit the bank the front end of the car came up so high he thought we were going over on the roof yet to boot.

We were shook up but unhurt. The car  was totaled. The man and his wife invited us in and were very kind. The man happened to own a garage in Franklin, so he towed the car in while we waited for Mary's dad to come back across the mountain to pick us up. How humiliating.

As I said, we started married life with a bang. I should have realized then that it was a harbinger of things to come.

So what did we do this Dec. 11?  

You probably won't believe it. After dark we drove up to my cousin Dwayne's field called the "High Meadow" and looked for deer. We saw four but they took off for the woods before I could run into one for  old times sake.

And did I have my full attention on my driving on this night?  Well now, that would be for me to know and for you to never find out.

"The Worship of Lament"

I had a epiphany moment a month or so ago. In other words," an experience of sudden and striking realization."

Now in my long and mediocre career epiphany moments have been few and far between. Maybe a few when I was growing up but certainly none lately. When you get my age you don't really expect new revelations; some nuanced understandings on things perhaps, but nothing really new.

Anyway, it happened on a quiet day at our own house. Mary handed me some writing done by Val Yoder and his late wife Krystal. One page was entitled "The Worship of Praise" and the other "The Worship of Lament".

It got my attention right away. I had always thought there was only one kind of worship, the praise kind. I knew that I wasn't in that frame of mind all that much, but I just figured it was just the mark of the poor Christian that I am.

Val and Krystal were saying that "lament" can be worship every bit as much as  the worship of praise. They said (and I've read it several other places since) that one third of the Psalms are psalms of lament. How could I have lived this long and missed this? I do remember reading thru the Psalms in the last year and feeling a deep connection to the ones (that I now realize) are Psalms of lament.

Now, even when I was young I loved writings such as Ecclesiastes. "All is vanity and vexation of spirit and a chasing after the wind". And I wasn't even a pessimist yet. I loved the quote attributed to Satchel Paige, the famous black baseball pitcher, who said, "Never look back, something might be gaining on you!" The songs that are most dear to my heart are songs that would fit into the "lament" category. Like "Pass me not, oh gentle Saviour, hear my humble cry, while on others thou art calling, do not pass me by!" Like "We are pilgrims, on a journey, through the darkness of the night".

Let me ask you a question; if you had to say, would you feel there is more sum total joy in the world or more sum total sorrow? I'd say sorrow and sadness win hands down. This old world is just oozing with sorrow.

Now maybe you're saying that I haven't gotten a grasp on the fullness of joy that awaits. You'd be right. I haven't. Because I'm talking about this old world that we're in now.

But back to the epiphany. I've been spending a lot of time in lament lately and have been feeling discouraged about it. I had the idea that lament is maybe part of the "grief process" or something; a stage you go through until you come to that place of overwhelming joy and praise that all "real" Christians experience.  Well, it weren't happening for me.

It was so freeing for me to find out that LAMENT IS WORSHIP ALSO! Pouring out your heart full of sorrow and pain. And finally putting it all "on the altar" since there is really nothing else you can do unless you want to keep carrying it all by yourself.

We're not talking here about ranting and raving at God for what we perceive to be injustices allowed by Him. Although, some of David's psalms sound like they come pretty close. And some of Job's statements.

Now I've never ranted and raved at God. Once, for several seconds, I came close.

The last ten years maybe, I don't sleep as well at night. I used to lay there frustrated, knowing that if I couldn't get back to sleep I would feel so bushed in the morning. I finally started just getting up and using that nice quiet time in the middle of the night to pray. Back when Myron was still and home and granddaughter Alexis still lived with us, I would sometimes go outside and walk around the house. (yes, this was the middle of the night; I haven't done it for a good while now; I think about those four bears cousin Donnie saw a half mile from our house) I would march around the house seven times. I figured if seven times around Jericho could knock those walls flat, maybe seven positive times around our house would build it up. I would stop beside each bedroom wall and pray mightily for the one asleep inside.  I would pray that the powers of darkness would be held back from crossing my "line in the sand".

Sometime later Mary and Alexis gave me a small bronze looking figurine of a man kneeling in prayer that they found at the Christian Bookstore. They had it engraved with the words "Thank you, Pa-Pa". It has set on our dresser for years now.

Anyway, here some months back I went into the bedroom to get something and happened to notice the figurine. For several seconds the overwhelming urge came over me to take it outside and smash it into a thousand pieces with a sledge hammer. "A lot of good all that praying did!" was what was going thru my mind.


Like I said, it lasted several seconds and then I felt pretty much "back on the altar" again.

Can good come out of a time of lament? Most definitely. I would never have chosen some of the things that have caused my laments, but I have to admit there is some good that comes along with it. I'm more tender now. I'm a little more apt to think of what might be causing someone else pain. I'm not quite so scared to reach out in some way to them. Pain is a great leveler.

I've never had a hint of any song writing potential, but several songs have come to me during this season of lament. I had the chorus of one of them in the last post; here's the whole thing.

                                                       Thou He Slay Me
                               There was a good and upright man
                                the most respected in the land
                                 he had no clue to what the future held in store
                                 it happened all in one short day
                                 his wealth, his children passed away
                                 now will he choose to trust, or curse his God and die

                                Job said I'll trust Him, though He slay me
                                how could I ever curse Him, then and die
                                Lord if I turn away from You, who else could I turn to
                                hold me in the hollow of Your hand

                                I once was young and so carefree
                                I had no worries, no not me
                                I had no time for those who fretted, needlessly
                                but then great heartache came my way
                                 I hardly had the breath to pray
                                 I lay face down, amongst the ashes of my dreams

                                 I cried oh Lord, how could this be
                                  your master plan I fail to see
                                 I asked for bread, but this feels like a stone
                                 I wonder why this dreadful test
                                 when I thought I'd done my best
                                  now will I choose to trust Him, even so

                                I choose to trust Him, though He slay me
                                how could I ever curse Him, then and die
                                   Lord if I turn away from You, who else could I turn to
                                   hold me in the hollow of Your hand

And another came soon after that.........

                                   The Hand That Paints the Sky

                                Have you ever watched the sunset
                                as it spreads it's crimson shade
                                  and been afraid to look away lest
                                    the whole scene should quickly fade
                                   as you sit in reverent silence
                                   contemplating life's unknowns
                                   does the hand that paints the sky
                                    see my struggle far below

                                 Does the Hand that paints the sky
                                 care for this small lump of clay
                                 can He feel that  my heart's breaking
                                with the cares that came my way
                                will He hear me when I call out
                                 will He answer by and by
                                   will He make sense of my canvas
                                   This Hand that paints the sky

                                  I know He has the power
                                   the universe waits His command
                                   and when He paints the sky at evening
                                    I see the touch of Sovereign hands
                                    the mixture of the colors
                                    the scale and the expanse
                                      points to a heavenly artist
                                    this Hand that paints the sky

                                   But does the Hand that paints the sky
                                     care for this small lump of clay
                                        can He feel that my heart's breaking
                                           with the cares that came my way
                                          will He hear me when I call out
                                             will He answer by and by
                                           will He make sense of my canvas
                                          this Hand that paints the sky

                                     Oh yes, the Hand that paints the sky
                                     has ears that  hear you when you call
                                       He counts your every tear,
                                      just as He sees the sparrow fall
                                       Give to Him your heavy burden
                                         cast on Him your every care
                                         He's the master canvas painter
                                            this Hand that paints the sky

And another soon after........ just a phrase from it; "since I was born a poor, lost starving man, if I'm gonna make it thru this barren land, I've got to have grace (full abounding overflowing) so rich and free".

My favorite song of lament right now is one by the Wiley College Accapella Choir entitled "Couldn't Hear Nobody Pray". Some of those old Negro Spirituals have more lament packed in a few lines than most white people get in a whole cd. Listen to it here. www.youtube.com/watch?v=4W3qvEIKg6Q

The guy that sings it uses such a old plantation accent that it's hard to catch the words. The song is lamenting about when Jesus was in such agony in the garden and nobody would watch with Him in prayer. "Dark was the night and cold the ground, on which my Lord was laid, great drops of blood like sweat rolled down, in agony He prayed. Oh Lord, I couldn't hear nobody pray, I couldn't hear nobody pray. I was way down yonder by myself, and I couldn't hear nobody pray." I still don't have all the second verse figured out. Something about "bitter herb, if such Thy sacred will, but if not __ ____ I'll drink it up, Thy plan I must fulfill." If you can listen (and watch the guy singing) without feeling moved, I question whether you have a soul at all.

Whew. This has gotten way too long. One more question. Am I worried that I'll not be able to switch gears from lament to praise when the time comes? At the risk of sounding like I'm swearing, heavens no!!

If I am privileged  by God's grace to be ushered into the presence of Jesus one day, when my days of lament are over..........it will be quite a scene, for sure. I'll scream, I'll wail for joy; I'll cry a river. If you value your peace and quiet, you might want to be sure you're on the other side of the City.

This old Southern Gospel song expresses it better than I could myself, so I'll close with it.

                                  I'm gonna let the glory roll when the roll is called in glory
                                  I'm gonna get beside a myself when I get beside a the King, that day
                                  I'm gonna have the time of my life when the time of my life is over
                                  I'm gonna get carried away when I get carried away!

"Build an Altar!"

I've decided there are several things in life that I must do to keep my sanity. Writing is one of them. Singing is another. And most important of all, I must build an altar every so often.

Build an altar, you say? I mean, this ain't the Old Testament exactly.

Well, if I recall the New Testament mentions something about being a "living sacrifice", in which case the sacrifice would be ourselves. And the best way to visualize that is by placing that sacrifice on an altar. An altar speaks of laying something down, of yielding, of death, if you please.

And what do you do with things that are outside of your control? Fret and fume and worry and despair? Yeah, me too. But when I get good and tired of that, I go build an altar.

I've had some practice at it. There have been a lot of things in my life I couldn't control. You would think it should get easier the more times you have to do it. Maybe it does, a little, but it still seems dreadfully hard each time.

By my way of thinking, if I was almighty, (don't mean to be sacrilegious here) I would kind of leave a person alone after he had built several. But my way of thinking doesn't always seem to work out in real life.

Because just recently we built another altar.  At least this time we built it before we knew for sure that one was needed.

Of course, that sounds silly. We actually needed one all along; it's just that we usually wait until something feels out of our control before we see the need.

Those of you who know us know our son Myron, who is very nearly blind. He has kept a good attitude about his blindness, put it on the "altar," you might say, and been very blessed by God. As in a livelihood, a wife, a son two years ago, and then another son six months ago.

When Caleb was born we watched him closely. How happy we were when it became obvious he could see. Then six months ago Clifton was born. You may have read some about it in the "New Life" post back in the spring.

We watched him, too. The longer it went we began to wonder if there was a problem. The family doctor said he was fine but we weren't sure we agreed with him. To make a long story short, just last week the eye doctor specialist confirmed our fears. She feels pretty certain that Clifton has the same eye condition as Myron. 

As you might imagine, we feel a little numb. We had pleaded with God to allow him to see. And we as parents remember the long road of wondering and struggle until we began to see some of the good that God had in store in Myron's case.

And while I'm thinking of it, let me mention something here. It's a warning. Never, I say NEVER, say something in my hearing about that maybe Myron and Heidi shouldn't have had children. If I were to hear you say that  it would take every ounce of my non-resistance to keep me from getting you by the throat and choking you to within an inch of your life. (sounds a little passionate for a Yoder, I know)

But back to the altar. We had built one a few months before.

Mary and I had gone on a drive on the Blue Ridge Parkway. It's something we love to do. It seems to wash some of the stress of life away to get up above the crud and grime of "civilization" and breathe deeply of God's mountain air.

That day we were burdened for Clifton. And for Myron and Heidi. Somewhere around milepost 25 we stopped, went up a short trail to a spot called "Indian Rocks", I think it was, and gathered stones and built a small altar. It was Cliftons altar.

We prayed. We told the Lord that we knew we couldn't control this one. That we were releasing Cliff to His Almighty care; to do with him as He sees fit for His glory.

I think it helped us get thru the days of wondering and then facing the news of last week.

You know, when we face trouble or a great disappointment, we have the same two choices that Job had to choose between. The first one was what his lousy wife suggested; to curse God and die. The second, which Job chose to do, was to"trust Him though He slay me".

                                 "I choose to trust Him, though He slay me,
                                    How could I ever curse Him, then and die,
                                    Lord, if I turn away from You, who else could I turn to,
                                     Hold me, in the hollow, of Your hand."

And in the meantime, before we can make any sense out of the loose and confusing strands of what will become God's tapestry for Cliftons life, we will love the living daylights out of that little boy. Well, he's not so little. In the high nineties on the percentiles for height and weight. Built like a linebacker. And you should see him jump in the spring loaded jumping thing that hooks over the doorway. He jumps till he's almost gasping for breath.

We will teach him everything we can about life around him. We will have picnics and swim in the creek. Read him books that will take him on great adventures to far off places. Spend many hours riding with Pa-Pa in the loader and knuckleboom moving logs.

And most of all, help plant that seed of childlike faith, till he gets old enough to build an altar of his own. 

                                "Sure, it takes a lot of courage
                                  to put things in God's hands,
                                  to give ourselves completely
                                  our lives, our hopes, our plans,
                                   to follow where He leads us,
                                    and make His will our own.
                                    But all it takes is foolishness
                                    to go the way alone."

"Redneck or No?"

I got an email from a younger friend some time after the "Redneck" post. He was trying to figure out if he qualified to join the ranks or not. I will not divulge his name here to respect his privacy and seeing as his in-laws live north of the Mason Dixon, we wouldn't want them to think any less of him now would we?

He started off telling me that he was proud of his Southern heritage, (well, as proud as a conservative Mennonite Christian can be, he said)

 He said he felt he should get some points for the car he drove when he was courting his wife. It had an off-color left front fender and he had to drive it all around Lancaster and Lebanon Counties in Pennsylvania and had to park alongside all the classy and expensive cars that  are common there.  (yeah, let's give him a few points for that)

Next he mentioned that he works in tennis shoes a lot. And he makes sure he gets his money's worth out of them, too. He glues them and duct tapes them to get a few extra days out of them. And he has been known to get them back out of the trash after his wife had thrown them away. (I'd give him a good handful of points here)

He also said that he figures the shoes are a good marketing ploy; maybe people will feel sorry for him and buy more strawberries. (hey, give him ten points here; good old redneck ingenuity!)

He did say he just bought himself a new pair of Wolverine work boots and how much more confident and manly he feels in them. Now plenty of rednecks wear Wolverines so we won't hold that against him. He will just have to decide between the confident manliness or the marketing strategy.

He did mention a few negatives. He doesn't have a car up on blocks in his front yard. (I didn't ask him about the back yard or out by the shop) He doesn't own any hounds; the one and only dog he had ran away. And he doesn't own a pair of bib overalls although he says he has wanted some for years.( I'd say let's call this one a wash; his desire for the overalls should balance out the other two negatives)

But the one last thing that really put him over the top in my book was the fact that his lawn mower doesn't have a hood. It wouldn't have been something that I would have thought of right off, but man, that is classic redneck! (give him 20 points for this one)

I consulted with Jeremy and we both thought we should let him in. I emailed him back that we may even have a leadership position open. That possibly he could head up a Northern Division of the Southern Campbell County Christian Redneck Association.

Ain't brotherhood a wonderful thing?!

"In Defense of the Common Redneck"

Whew! I can't tell you what a relief it is to get back to a subject I really know something about. I was in kind of deep water on my last post so now I feel a little like Brer Rabbit after he had got hissef throwd back into the brier patch. Man, it feels mighty good to be home!

Now maybe you didn't realize it, but there are actually some Christian rednecks around. In fact there are a few (me and Jeremy anyway) Mennonite Christian rednecks in southern Campbell County. If you go north towards Charlottesville and east towards Richmond or Va. Beach people get more high-falutin and citified. If you to west towards Floyd County (I've got relatives there) you run into just plain old hillbillys. There's some similarities but they ain't necesarily the same.

 My good friend Jeremy (sorry Jordan, couldn't get you out of the way) and his favorite t-shirt. At least I guess it is because he wore it in the picture that his family sent out at Christmas time. How to hunt like a redneck. Shine, shoot, and run!

How can you tell if you're in redneck country? Let me  give you a few clues. One surefire way to know you're passing thru redneck country is if all the road signs are shot full of holes. I've never really figured this one out, but rednecks do have a strong hankering for shooting things and maybe when hunting season isn't in they just have to cut loose at something.

Another obvious clue is how much curl is on the bill of a guy's baseball style cap. The more curl, the more redneck. I personally wear mine at about half-curl which would be sort of moderately redneckish.

At the peak of my career. Myron and I were singing "Now the way to cook a possum is to bake him nice and sweet, put him in a fryin' pan with taters roun' his feet"

And the bib overalls. Tuck Poindexter was one of my favorite locals. Tuck was a big man with a big voice. I'm not sure I ever saw him in anything else except bib overalls. He kept his head shaved like a pealed onion, had a walrus mustache, had one arm missing; sometimes he wore his hook and sometimes he didn't. In the summer his favorite wardrobe was the bib overalls all by themselves with no shirt.  He had a cattle truck and did our cattle hauling for many years. Tuck had a closer sense of "space" between people than most.When having a conversation you would feel a little too close so you would back up a step every so often. Then of course he would take a step forward. If you were in a 20 minute conversation you might be 10 or 15 feet back from where you started from at the beginning.

And listen to the jokes. In Lancaster or Goshen they have Amish jokes. Around here it's the redneck ones. Like "you know you're a redneck if your front porch falls off and more than five hounds get killed". One of my favorites actually mentions the Amish as well. How to tell if your Amish neighbor is a redneck?? If he has his horse up on blocks.

There really is something about the relationship between a redneck and his hounds. Years ago  Whitehall Plantation  was bought by Mr. James Britt from Suffolk, VA. Now they hunted deer with hounds back in Suffolk as well, but they would surround a tract of land and use the hounds more like drivers.

Here the redneck hunt clubs (even though I claim to be a redneck, I don't like this style of hunting) run big Walker hounds and turn their dogs loose on one road and run the deer hoping they will cross another road somewhere. And sometimes they run the deer for miles. And while the dogs are trailing the deer, the "hunters" are roaring up and down the roads in their 4wheel drive pickups keeping each other informed on the particulars of the chase by cb radio. Billy Joe Poindexter told me once how some of the guys in the hunt club determined if they had a good hunting day. If you burned a tank of gas and shot up a box of shells, that was a good day. It didn't really have that much to do with killing a deer, he said.

What really irked Mr. Britt was that they hunted his land without his permission. The dogs ran thru his property and they would just pick the deer off when they crossed the road; they didn't even need to get on his land themselves. So he started shooting a hound every now and then when he thought he could get away with it.

Somehow this was found out and he was hauled into court. He told me afterwards that he found out one thing, if you want to do something to these guys, shoot their wife maybe but definitely don't shoot their hounds.

You know you're in redneck country if Mud Bogging is one of the main sports. Never heard of it?  There is a big trench dug out and filled with dirt and water to make mud. Then you try to get thru it with your pickup." I've never actually been to one and probably better not start. When I was young and was off-roading and came to a mud hole, I would feel this irresistable  urge to see if I could make it thru to the other side. And I didn't have a 4wheel drive truck either, so the technique was to back up and get the most speed possible so the speed would carry you at least part way thru on pure inertia. If you did get bogged down you had to use the old rock it back and forth trick. You weren't truly stuck as long as you were still gaining a couple of inches on each forward run.

Mike Cox is a friend of my cousin Donnie and was also the sheriff of neighboring Amherst County some years back. He told me how it was when he got elected. He was running against an incumbent  sheriff who didn't take his challenge all that seriously. The incumbent made the statement, "Oh, the only ones who will vote for Mike will be the redneck loggers." Well, said Mike, what the old boy didn't realize was that most of Amherst County people were redneck loggers!

Now rednecks aren't always model citizens. Reminds me of the words of an old country song I remember from years ago. It goes, "Makin' their way, the only way they know how;  that's just a little bit more than the law will allow." They might be a good neighbor on one hand and make a little moonshine on the other.

But there are some things about them you've just got to admire.(here are a few nuggets I got from a redneck website) They have no respect for man made timelines. They live one day at a time. A true redneck may put his car up on blocks for a decade before restoration begins. True-blue rednecks feel really sorry for the poor people who work themselves to the bone for 8 years in college only to become corporate slaves.

Where did the term "redneck" come from anyway? In the 1640's there were Presbyterians in (I think) Scotland (or was it Ireland) who refused to accept the Church of England as their official state church. They signed a covenant opposing it, some of them signing with their own blood. This lead to them being called "Covenanters". They also would wear red cloths around their necks to publicly identify themselves with the movement. This gave them the nickname "rednecks", which followed them to the New World.

Rednecks. You gotta love 'em in spite of themselves.

 And I think when I go to work tomorrow morning and before I put on my faithful Hackett's Chain Saw Sales camouflage cap I'll give that bill just a little bit more curl for good measure.

"Food For Thought"

Here is a very thought-provoking blog post written by my uncle Harvey Yoder. Well worth reading......

Harvspot: Knit Together by Differences