Author: Rosemary Lovelace

By the Reverend George Yandell, Rector

Commissary

In mid-August 1991, my cousin Nancy and I rendezvoused in Butte, Montana.  We planned to take three days to acclimate to the altitude before we began our 12-day Sierra Club backpacking trip in the Pintler-Anaconda Wilderness area.  That hike was to take us up to the continental divide, then hike north from high-country lake to lake with a mid-hike supply.  Dr. Wayne Chamberlain was the guide and leader of the trip. (An anesthesiologist from Helena but who hailed from Memphis, where I lived at the time.)

The day before the hike, the trip leaders descended on our motel with all the food supplies.  Nancy volunteered to have the loads of freeze-dried food brought to her hotel room (next to mine) and help sort it out.  I had no idea what that entailed.  They got started sorting the food into separate packets for each meal for 18 people for 12 days.  That meant 36 large parcels with more than 72 packets labeled by day and meal. We each ended up carrying @ 15-20 pounds of the ‘Commissary’- the food, the cooking pots, the water bags.

The sorting day was August 19. There was no room for me in the sorting space, so I watched TV- special coverage of the fall of the Soviet regime. Boris Yeltsin was standing on top of a tank in front of the Soviet Parliament building.  I rushed into Nancy’s room to tell the team what was happening. Nancy turned and said, “Don’t disturb us- this is very difficult work here.”  She shushed me with vigor. 

Only after we were 3 days on the Skyline Trail did I realize how intricate the sorting was.  A few times the bags labeled ‘Breakfast day 3” or “Dinner day 6” did not contain what they should’ve.  (I never suggested to Nancy that she could have been at fault.) Sometime after the mid-point in the hike I mused that Boris and Nancy had a common trait- neither was reluctant to take charge.  I understand from long-time parishioners who knew Nancy well (she was Sr. Warden for Holy Family when the initial property purchase from the Griffith family was arranged) that they respected her for how devoted she was. And willing to take charge.

By the end of the hike, Nancy had apologized for abruptly shutting me off.  And she appreciated that Wayne and I had brought our fly rods- many late afternoons we caught enough cutthroat trout to augment the groups’ high-carb freeze-dried food.

I imagine we each have commissary items that equip us for our paths through life.  That we’ve sorted out what’s important and what’s not. I credit Nancy for helping me yield to tackle what’s critical to the well-being of the team.  It’s a long hike we’re on together.  G. Yandell

By Reverend George Yandell, Rector

Feasting

Each spring I watch to see how the service berry bushes are doing.  Three of those small trees are planted in front of the gallery, and 30 of them encircle the ball ground just west of the nave and parish hall. (Planted there with donations for Holy Family’s 30^th anniversary celebration.) The trees begin to produce their fruit in mid-spring.  A few weeks ago I saw the first of the little greenish berries, and yesterday after the 10:30 service, I saw them turning a rose color and thought, and “It won’t be long.”

Just now I went to the nave to remove the celebration frontal from the altar. Stepping out to the car, I beheld the beginning of the spring feast- the red-eye vireos had begun to harvest the berries with gusto.  Normally the small, dull green red-eye vireos are reclusive, living in the tops of trees.  From early spring into the fall, I’d heard them repeating and repeating their call, “Here I am, where are you……” yet never saw them.  I spied my first one 4 years ago while hiking near our house after years of searching.

But now a flock is descending on the service berry bushes with gusto.  It seems they abandon their normal shyness for a huge feast.  It will continue for a few days, if past springs are any indication.  By the time they’ve filled themselves and flown away the concrete is littered with the remnants of their flurried gorging.

They seem like us a bit, I think.  How ready am I to throw off the long covid-inspired retreat and let loose with friends. Maybe not as frenzied as the vireos, but certainly as hungry to celebrate the ripe fruits of the season and offer thanks. 

Come on by the nave and watch the vireos.  Soon they’ll be back in their haunts, hard to spy but present none-the-less.  Crying ceaselessly, “Here I am, where are you.”  G. Yandell

The Rev George Yandell, Rector

The Key of Earth

In 1978 I heard a remarkable song on the FM jazz station in Metro Washington D.C. It was ‘Common Ground’ by Paul Winter on the album of the same title. The DJ gave some background on the album- it featured songs of the humpback whale, the African fish-eagle and a Canadian timber wolf named Jethro. (I kid you not.) The animals’ songs were woven into compositions by Paul Winter and others. Two days later I had the album. I was entranced by the recordings. Reading the liner notes I saw the name of the cellist- David Darling. It rang a bell. Turns out I’d read in National Geographic some years prior about a scientist named Darling who’d been doing pioneering recordings of humpback whales- Jim Darling was his name. David was Jim’s older brother- the connection jumped out at me- the early hydrophone recordings of the humpbacks must have captured David’s attention and he linked Paul Winter into the research. (David died just two and half months ago at age 79.)

The album featured Darling, Paul McCandless (oboe) (both original members of the Paul Winter Consort and later members of Oregon- I heard them in concert in early 1979) along with Steve Gadd (drummer for Chick Corea, Paul Simon, Donald Fagen and Walter Becker, Aretha Franklin, Carly Simon, Bob James, Nancy Wilson, Joe Cocker, and Eric Clapton to name a few). And Paul Stookey of Peter, Paul and Mary. An eclectic assemblage of passionate artists.

Winter and his colleagues discovered an amazing thing: the songs of the humpback, timber wolf and fish-eagle were all the same key: D-flat. Winter says in the liner notes for the song ‘Trilogy’ (which features all three animals’ songs without accompaniment): “I’ve enjoyed speculating on whether this is a lucky coincidence, or a gift from the Muse. I was told by a teacher once that in some esoteric systems D-flat is considered to be the key of the Earth.”

In the notes for the song ‘Wolf Eyes’, Winter writes, “This song was inspired by a magnificent Canadian timber wolf named Jethro, and by the extraordinary wolf music I have heard in the wild… The closing duet was recorded live at the North American Predatory Animal Center in the California Sierras. Ida, the wolf who sang with me there (on my alto sax), is pictured on the back cover.” He writes in the notes for ‘Ocean Dream’: “This song is a fantasy inspired by experiences I’ve had playing saxophone to grey whales from a small raft in the Pacific off Vancouver Island with the Greenpeace Expedition of 1975, and later from a rowboat in Magdalena Bay, Baja California, as part of a film about whales.”

In July of 1994, I was lucky to be with my daughters on a whale watching trip out of Northeast Harbor, Maine. Bob Bowman captained the small ferry/mailboat with about 15 of us on board. We motored out toward Mt. Desert Rock Lighthouse, 18 miles from land. The wind was calm, the water glassy. We spied a lone puffin paddling along- everyone got their cameras out- that tiny bird was evidence of a recovering puffin population on the islands near Acadia.

Captain Bowman talked with local lobstermen, asking about whale sightings. We could hear one of the lobstermen responding over the radio, “We’ve seen two humpbacks spy-hopping about two miles from you- you might motor toward them.” Sure enough, as we drew near the location, two humpbacks surfaced and swam near the boat. After a few minutes, they dived. We waited, motor off. Then one of the whales rose up on the port side of the boat- all of us moved to that side- the whale was about 12 feet from the rail, vertical in the water, looking at us. On a whim, I moved to starboard by myself, leaning over the side. The second whale was deep below me, coming to the surface. Over the clamor of the other group, the whale surfaced 5 feet from me, his huge left eye on level with my own. I was entranced. It seemed everything went silent in reverence. In his/her eye, I saw and felt the presence of an ancient, sentient being. He/she stared at me for over 30 seconds, then slowly subsided under the surface.

I’ve not felt the same presence since. An out-of-body connection to one of the largest most majestic creatures ever to live on earth.

It’s now thought that not only male humpbacks sing their intricate, repeating songs, but that females sing at lower tones only now being recorded and studied. Makes sense to me- why should only males get to sing? George Yandell

The Rev. George Yandell, Rector

Southernisms

Not sure why, but some of the most striking, hilarious expressions have come to me from a few wonderful southerners. They made Lewis Grizzard seem tired and bland.

Annie Lee Brown, Guest House Manager at Virginia Seminary, former house mother for the Delt Tau Delta’s at Auburn: “She was going down like the wreck of the Hesperus.” “He is like a lost ball in high weeds.” “He is one egg short of a dozen.” “He’s like a blind dog in a meat house.”

Rick from Americus GA during Emory days: “When they were giving out brains, you thought they said ‘rains’ and you ran for cover.” “When they were giving out noses, you thought they said ‘roses’ and you asked for a big red one.” “When they were giving out looks, you thought they said ‘books’ and you asked for a funny one.” And more.

I was a young deacon, 26 years old, assigned to Church of the Holy Communion in Memphis. Bowlyne Fisher (priest, Ph.D., hailed from Henning TN) associate to the rector, introduced me to the lore of Memphis. One afternoon, standing at the picture window of his 8th floor mid-town apartment, he pointed to the street below and exclaimed, “There’s Prince Mongo.” I said, “What? Who?” Bowlyne said, “Yeah, he’s a fixture here. Has a bar down near the river. Get’s raided pretty often. Claims to have been born on the planet Zambodia around 333 years ago.” This man in a big late model convertible, top-down in winter, parked, got out and started walking down the street. He was wearing fluffy white leggings like a Zulu warrior. Bowlyne said, “He always wears goggles and a long white wig in public and wild clothing. He lives about 3 blocks from here.” Prince Mongo had run continuously in every Memphis mayoral election since 1978, sometimes intermittently running for Mayor of Shelby County. In the 1991 mayoral election, Prince Mongo got 2,000 votes, which put him in third place. Bowlyne summed up Mongo, “He’s out of his green leafy tree.”

During Lent we were sent to Montesi’s Food Store to get some last-minute items for a Lenten Supper. Walking through the parking lot a woman in big new Cadillac whizzed by us and parked close to the store in a handicapped parking spot. She leapt out of her car and raced into the food store. Bowlyne turned to me and said, “Must be mentally handicapped.” Other of his sayings: “All his leaves aren’t raked into one pile.” “Always off-key in the band in his head.”

I miss these people – can’t imagine how they became such comedic sages. I guess it’s in the water we southerners drink and the company we keep. George Yandell

The Rev George Yandell, Rector

Earworms

I owe Bill Pattillo for giving me that word “earworm”. He used it with me about 10 years ago- it describes that tune you can’t get out of your head- it keeps burbling up from your inner self, taking residence in your ear AND IT WON’T QUIT. Knowing the syndrome has a name does not keep me safe from its assaults.

Don Henley’s song ‘This is the End of the Innocence’ is the worm that’s been plaguing me for weeks. Why? My subconscious has yet to tell me. I’ve been playing it in the car, resonating with the lyrics, trying to expunge it. But my hunch is that I am longing for the earlier times when covid hadn’t struck and we could be together in what now seems to be gauzy, blissful times in the sun. Oh no, not “We Had Joy We Had Fun We had Seasons in the Sun—” stop it!

Another earworm has taken up permanent residence in my subconscious- it’s the tune ‘Kingsfold’ from our hymnal. That tricksy part of my psyche defaults to it unbidden in quiet moments. That tune is used in two hymns- this is one I seem to prefer: Hymn 292

“Oh Jesus, crowned with all renown, since thou the earth hast trod, thou reignest and by thee come down henceforth the gifts of God.”

This second portion of the verse bounds and rebounds around in me: “Thine is the health and thine the wealth that in our halls abound, and thine the beauty and the joy with which the years are crowned.” To me it’s almost a reminiscence of pre-covid times. But that’s too simple an explanation, isn’t it?

It could be that I sang it in the boys’ choir on Sundays during the fall. It could be that it’s a most singable, lovely song. But that’s the thing- I CAN’T KNOW. It just starts up like a holy jukebox with only one disc.

The juke box in our house at Emory always contained Led Zeppelin’s song “Black Dog” even when other titles were switched out. “Hey, hey mama, said the way you move. Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove.” I could always tell upstairs when David came back from class. He’d cue up that song in the huge party room downstairs and start blasting out the lyrics with Robert Plant at top volume. Maybe I should seek him out and suggest it become an earworm for him. Would that be fair? Can one remove the worm in thine own ear by infusing it in the ear of another?

Googling ‘earworm cure’ yields this and many other results:

5 Ways to Get Rid of Earworms: According to Science LISTEN TO THE ENTIRE SONG. Earworms tend to be small fragments of music that repeat over and over (often a song’s refrain or chorus). LISTEN TO A “CURE TUNE.”. The same study also found that some subjects used competing songs, or “cure tunes,” to control their earworms. DISTRACT YOURSELF WITH SOMETHING ELSE. … CHEW GUM. … LEAVE IT ALONE. … Hmmh- don’t seem like cures to me. They’re just substituting other activities until the dreaded worm slinks back into my ear again. Oh well, here’s one for the road: “All the leaves are brown….” Come out, come out, wherever you are. G. Yandell

By Patricia Stimmel

After Ash Wednesday services last week, I went about running errands but first stopped by McDonald’s for an iced coffee. I placed the order and drove around, the little Mexican lady at the window started to speak but abruptly stopped, put her hands on her face in disbelief and cried out…’Oh my God, today is Ash Wednesday!’ She was upset, almost crying and repeated…’Isn’t that right lady, today is Ash Wednesday, oh my God!! I can’t go…oh no…I’m working!” I realized immediately that she was staring at my forehead with the cross of ashes. I said, ‘It’s okay, wait…I have something to help you…”, digging in my pocked for the little packet of ashes remaining from the service. The look on her face was tearful and so upset. I handed it to her and explained the ashes were blessed and it was perfectly acceptable for her to administer the sign of the cross. She kept saying tearfully, “Oh my God lady, thank you so much.” As I collected my iced coffee, I noticed her hanging her head out the window still shouting “Thank you lady…thank you!” Best iced coffee I’ve ever had! Patricia Stimmel

The Rev. George Yandell, Rector

What passages/poems/speeches did you have to memorize in school? I mentioned in a past piece that my 6th grade confirmation class had to memorize parts of the Offices of Instruction (Catechism) about the nature of a sacrament. I can still recite the Gettysburg Address, mostly. And the Nicene Creed, and of course the Boy Scout Oath and Law.

Some people have much better capacity than I for keeping things they’ve memorized accurate and fresh in their memory. If I’ve sung and performed a piece of music in choirs or the Glee Club (Emory) or in Church, it sticks better in my brain. Why is that?

Ted Hackett and I have talked about Neuro Linguistic Programming- he poo-poos it mostly. But I find value in using some of its techniques. NLP is a “powerful model of human experience and communication” (from the forward of Frogs into Princes: Neuro Linguistic Programming, Bandler and Grinder, 1979). It posits that there are three modalities in humans- visual, audio and kinesthetic. NLP suggests that the modalities are layered in each of us- I am pretty sure I’m a visual/kinesthetic/audio kind of guy. My primary mode for intersecting with the world is by seeing, secondarily by feeling, and third by hearing. If I can see it, I can more readily recall it and better fix it in my memory. Seeing the sheet music in front of me, singing the lines with the texts, helps me to memorize it almost automatically. (Getting my cataracts removed and new lenses implanted last February really opened the world anew to me.) Other people are layered differently.

If I feel the beat of a song, hear the lyrics repeatedly, then often I can recall it, but usually not as precisely as seeing the score.

If someone tells me to remember a phone number, I’ll reach for a pen to write it down. If I don’t have a pen, I’ll likely not remember it. Hearing it doesn’t embed it in my brain. People who are layered audio/visual/kinesthetic can likely recall spoken phone numbers much better than I.

One application of NLP is for listening and responding more intently and caringly to another’s story. If I hear my friend using frequent ‘visual’ language (“I can see that happening” or “I remember vividly the image of our dog playing with our daughters”) I might respond with “I think I see what you mean.” That sort of response can bridge to a deeper level of mutual trust and self-revealing.

If I hear her saying, “When I hear ______ it drives me crazy” or “The sound of his voice still haunts me,” I could reply, “What is he saying when you hear his voice?” But these responses have to be authentic.

In Covid time, listening well to our friends, colleagues and family can be a relief and a gift to them. Each of us needs to be heard and understood especially when we’re stressed and discouraged. I appreciate it when folks seek me out just to catch up and chat. I suspect you do as well. We need to be heard and understood. You validate my feelings (and what I see and hear.) Thank you. G. Yandell

The Rev George Yandell, Rector

Articles in Backpacker magazine are often about extreme feats of outdoor endurance to test new gear or to offer descriptions to out of the way trails. The current issue carries an article by Bill Donahue entitled “A Hero’s Journey”. The byline: “Rue McKenrick would hike the perimeter of the country to demonstrate our nation’s unity—if only he and the country could hold together long enough for him to finish.” It caught my attention.

The story’s author catches up with McKenrick a few miles west of the North Dakota border. “He’s about 9,000 miles into his hike by now. I’m planning to spend three days and 75 miles following him west, asking how a hurt pilgrim might search for hope in a broken country.”

“It’s soon clear that the depression and anxiety that hit McKenrick in rain-soaked Appalachia seven months ago never left him. He’s not well physically either.” As the two walk/ride along together (the author brought a trail bike so he could keep up with the hiker) McK. tells that he’s walked more than 8,000 consecutive miles all by himself. They’re hiking along the North Country Trail which stretches 4,700 miles from Vermont to central North Dakota. Their route is ram-rod straight over a gravel road on the flat, dusty, nearly treeless landscape. McK. says, “There’s a sadness in the ground. It feels like there are sad stories here that have never been told. It feels like people went missing and never got found.” They both recognize McK. is talking about his own deep sadness as well as their locale. Mck. sums it up, “I was really put into deep isolation with the pandemic; I can only take so much solitude.”

McK. started his odyssey 13 years after his life was shaken by a betrayal. He moved from Pennsylvania to Bend, Oregon to start over in the midst of a horrible depression. He joined a meditation community and met his guru. McK. attained a happy and simple stability in OR. He got a bike and commuted to his job at a golf course, even in snow and rain. He started mountain biking in the Cascades. His depression waned, but when it returned in 2018, he knew how to tackle it. “You get your family and friends involved. You bring in the professionals. There’s no shame in saying, ‘I have an issue, I need help.’ In talking with the caring folks in his community, he saw his situation clearly: “The experience I wanted was to go backpacking.”

He also wanted to contribute to society. He felt it was his calling to establish a new American Trail. At first he didn’t realize how vast a project it would become.

He started growing a support network and social media campaign in the summer of 2019. He’d been training for a year, so he set out from Bend the day after having major dental surgery. He had trouble in almost every state he hiked through. In Nevada the highway patrol stopped him and said, “Hitchhiking is not allowed in Nevada.” Hours later the same officer was on foot and yelled at McK. again, “Get your hands out of your pockets!” worried McK. might have a gun. The trooper searched through his belongings for weapons that weren’t there.

He started his hike with dreams of discovering America and its people as he established a trail that carried a spiritual dimension. He described it as “a circular and infinite loop without a beginning or an end.” His explanation for persisting is “Each step I take is a prayer to the universe for ever increasing unity.”

On October 23 last year McK. had to pause his mission when he cracked from stress, depression and exhaustion. He went back to Bend and got a doctor to work with him on physical and emotional issues. He began to heal with the help of his friends.

The author of the story learned recently that McK. intends to restart his hike. On May 1 this year, he will begin hiking west from Bismarck, ND where he stopped in October last year. He hopes to climb through the snows in Glacier National Park and then cut west toward the Olympic Peninsula. Along the way he’ll take in some of the route taken long ago by Lewis and Clark.

He said, “It concerns me that my depression may return.” The author states, “It concerns me as well, and I carry the same worry for our country… in the dark morass of Covid and riven by incivility. We are hurting and, and Rue McKenrick, our hero, is all of us.” I am on the fence about McKenrick’s sanity and capacity to accomplish his mission. But I sure identify with his drive to increase the country’s unity. Looking at the map of the USA with his route in red encircling the country, it looks like a red ribbon on an immense gift of hope. God bless him. G. Yandell

The Rev George Yandell, Rector

TOP OF THE WORLD

It was a weekend in early February of 1964. My scout troop was undertaking its annual ‘freeze out,’ as the scouts called it. I was just before turning 12 years old as a second-class scout.

I had joined Boy Scout Troop 52 in West Knoxville a little less than a year before. The troop and my patrol had taken some day hikes during that time. This was a hike of entirely different magnitude. We were hiking up Mt. Le Conte in the Smokies. (Trip Advisor calls it one of the most dangerous hiking trails in the USA. It’s the 3rd highest peak in the Great Smoky Mountains.)

In the troop meetings in the weeks prior to the hike, we boys had to bring our packs and hiking gear to be inspected. I was told by the scoutmaster I needed warmer outerwear and a water-repellant poncho since the weather “on top” he called it, could be pretty unpredictable and severe. The day of the hike we met at West Hills Elementary School way before dawn, loaded our gear in some parents’ cars and motored to Gatlinburg, then up through Cherokee Orchard to the Rainbow Falls trailhead. I put on my pack as the first pale light came into the sky. I recall there were about 50 boys and 6 adult leaders on the hike. The trail to the falls wasn’t too hard, but just above the falls the trail got steeper and sleet started coming down. Within an hour the trail was covered in snow and footing became slippery.

By the time the guys with me and an assistant scoutmaster had paused for a snack and some water, the snow was a foot deep and coming down heavy. I don’t know how long it took to reach the lodges on the top of the mountain – all the older boys had claimed the small cabins and had fires going in the pot-bellied stoves. (The small cabins had two double-bed bunks- 4 -6 boys had jammed themselves in each.) Alan, Joe and I had to sleep in one of the much larger lodges. I recall they had two-three bunkrooms and a large center area with a fireplace. Four of us piled into one of the bunkrooms and took off our wet gear. More younger scouts took the other rooms. One of the older boys started a fire, but it did little to warm the drafty lodge. We huddled near it, ate some gorp, waiting for dinner.

The dining lodge was warm, dry and the food delicious. Mr. Brown and his young men helped him serve beef stew, warm bread, cobbler, as much as we could eat. We had a brief evening program around the tables, got the plan for Sunday morning and hiking out. That night was one of the coldest I’ve spent. I slept in all my clothes and outerwear, pulled the blanket tight over me, and woke frequently to burrow down deeper under the covers.

When day dawned and we went to breakfast, the snow lay heavy over everything and the sun reflected so brightly I had to squint. After breakfast we went to a large flat spot overlooking the rest of the world. Peaks I would come to recognize later were white islands above dense white clouds- Thunderhead, Charlie’s Bunion, Clingman’s Dome, Gregory Bald.

I couldn’t know it then, but that hike changed me. Standing deep in fresh snow on the top of the world for the Sunday service whetted my appetite for more. I went on every hike the troop and my patrol took. I came to love the challenges of winter hiking and camping. (The next year’s freeze-out was on Spence Field in tents. Lots warmer than Mt. Le Conte.)

I remain deeply grateful to Mr. Rowland, Mr. Cheverton, Mr. Haubenrich and all the other men who volunteered to lead and train us. Life-changing is too tame a description for those experiences. Soul-deepening is more apt.

I thought about those early hikes when I stood at 9,000 feet on the Continental Divide Trail in Montana beside my cousin Nancy Womack in August 1990. (Nancy had taken her first backpacking trip with me in January 1982. We hiked from Clingman’s Dome to Spence Field on the AT, then down to Cades Cove in 3 days. She was hooked.)

We were overwhelmed by the vastness of all those mountains marching north toward Canada. That 11-day Sierra Club hike linked directly to my Boy Scout experience 37 years earlier. The top of the world still calls to me. G. Yandell