28. The Walk ... THE FARM EAST OF PINE VILLAGE

One evening in autumn after Charles had gone away to college, Robert had finished his homework and his piano practice early. He still had a few hours before he had to go to bed to get enough sleep before school the next day, so he decided to take Spot for a walk.

Spot eagerly jumped into his harness, and, leash in hand, Robert set out east along the gravel road that ran in front of the family’s new home. At the intersection, Robert and Spot turned right. They covered a considerable distance to the south before coming to Mound Cemetery, which centered on crossroads meeting at right angles. In all that way, no vehicle had come down the road. The night was becoming chilly. The moon darted fretfully behind scudding clouds of smoky silver.

At the base of the tall, wide mound studded with gravestones, Robert and Spot turned to the right on the dusty road that made a complete circle around the hill. They turned right again on the road leading west. On the left, the long-abandoned Martindale house stood. The two-story structure was built of large blocks of sandstone. A cupola topped the center of its slate roof. The windows on both floors were tall. The front door featured sidelights and transom.

Robert had once asked his father why no one lived in such a splendid house, and Joe had answered that the family came to believe that the sandstone retained moisture that bred illness.

Robert and Spot walked past the shadowy hulk with towering pine trees to the north and west. The rusted windmill on the south side of the dwelling creaked. Robert found himself glancing over his shoulder at the empty windows, and he shivered from more than the cold air. At that moment, he could easily have been persuaded that ghosts exist.

“Let’s hurry!” Robert said to Spot. Robert was surprised to hear how small his voice sounded in the great outdoors of fall beside the Martindale house with its staring windows.

It had been Robert’s intention to traverse a large square, but, by the time he and Spot reached Great Uncle Charlie Rhode and Great Aunt Vinnie’s house, Robert knew it was getting late and both he and the terrier were getting tired. He decided to knock on the door.

Carrying an open newspaper in one hand, Great Uncle Charlie answered. His eyes opened wide behind his gold-rimmed glasses when he saw Robert standing on his porch at night. Robert explained that he had walked there but had concluded it was too late to complete the square. He wondered if he could use Charlie’s telephone to call home.

Charlie said, “Sure!” and led him to a small table with a black phone. While Robert was dialing his parents’ number, Great Aunt Vinnie stepped into the room. Although both she and Charlie were up in years, they still had black hair and relatively smooth skin, which made them seem younger than they truly were.

Robert felt foolish when he told his father that he and Spot were calling from Great Uncle Charlie’s house, but Joe took everything in stride. Joe was becoming accustomed to the fact that Robert often did what was unexpected.

“I’ll be there soon,” Joe said.

“Do you like living in the country?” Vinnie asked as Robert put the receiver back in its cradle.

“Very much,” Robert said. “Dad and Mom really fixed up the house before we moved in.”

Great Uncle Charlie, who had played on the legendary community football team when he was young, would give Robert an excellent interview two years later, when Robert would be writing an article titled “Football Was Alive Here Then” for the high school newspaper.

On this occasion, Charlie just made small talk until Joe pulled into the driveway.

Robert and Spot waved goodbye to Charlie and Vinnie standing in the lighted doorway.

On the trip back home, Joe said, “You and Spot covered considerable ground in a fairly short time.”

“He likes to run ahead,” Robert said.

Spot was stretched out on the seat with his front paws hanging over its edge. Typically, he would have been at the window watching the world go by.

“I think Spot is tuckered out,” Robert said.

Before long, everyone was home. Robert brushed his teeth, said goodnight, and went to bed. Before he turned out the light, he thought about leaving it on until morning. The cheerful lamp kept the cemetery and the haunted house from encroaching on Robert’s thoughts, but he was also afraid that his parents would see the light streaming across the yard through the window of his room and would wonder if he might be having trouble sleeping. He switched off the light and lay awake in the darkened room for at least an hour. Every creak and bump from somewhere in the house made him ask himself, “What was that?”

Eventually, Robert remembered the hymn that he had played so often at the Methodist Church:

When we walk with the Lord in the light of his Word

What a glory he sheds on our way!

While we do his good will, he abides with us still,

And with all who will trust and obey.

Trust and obey, for there’s no other way

To be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey.

Not a shadow can rise, not a cloud in the skies,

But his smile quickly drives it away;

Not a doubt or a fear, not a sigh nor a tear,

Can abide while we trust and obey.

Robert drifted off to slumber.

25. The Ouibache Experience ... THE FARM EAST OF PINE VILLAGE

As Charles had once spent a week at an experimental camp called Ouibache, a French word on which the English word Wabash was coined, Robert decided to look into it. He persuaded his cousin Pam to apply with him to become counselors, and they were accepted. They were to have training for a week at the end of May. Working with the staff, they would select any two weeks in the summer to return to the camp and to serve as leaders.

Many years earlier, the location had been a forestry station run by Purdue University. The grounds numbered some hundred acres of rugged land, heavily wooded, leading down to the Wabash River and including a small island in the stream. Purdue had built many well-appointed structures, including barracks for men, barracks for women, a cafeteria, a laboratory, and an amphitheater. At some point, the Hoosier 4-H Leadership Center had established a new purpose for the old outpost.

In that May between their sophomore and junior years, when Pam and Robert arrived at the camp, they were assigned rooms in a large A-frame fronting the west. They hardly knew what to expect. In the orientation session, the permanent staff introduced the thirty-odd counselors to one another and to their objective, which was to help children from farms, from cities, and from everywhere in between farms and cities to discover the joys of collaboration in the peaceful stewardship and preservation of nature.

It was 1970, a pivotal year. The Kent State shootings had just occurred, and it felt as if the lofty aims of the Sixties would never be attained. The staff members ranged in age from two to thirty years older than Robert and Pam, with many of them having graduated in the 1960s. Like strong ships, they had remained upright on the stormy seas of that disappointing decade. They eschewed empty platitudes; they had learned that it was wrong to promise Xanadu to brokenhearted people. They focused their attention not on the world but on the individual.

“We have one of the youngest counselors we have ever had,” Mick, a thin, guitar-playing fellow, began, smiling at Robert. “Welcome!”

Robert felt a little on the spot during the light applause, but he sensed that everyone was supportive.

A friendly Purdue student named Paul and a woman nicknamed “Mouse” said a few words. In no time, people felt at home.

As twilight fell, Paul stood a flashlight on end so that its beam struck the ceiling of the A-frame high above. All other lights were extinguished. Everyone sat cross-legged on the carpet.

“What makes you vulnerable?” Paul asked. “No one has to speak, but everyone can speak, if he or she feels so moved.”

Slowly, people admitted their fears. Paul thanked them and said, “Remember that the youngsters who come to the camp share your vulnerabilities but most likely are not equipped to identify them or to talk about them. Don’t ask them to try. For you to recognize their vulnerabilities is what matters.”

“What makes you invincible?” Paul asked next. Soon, people began responding.

Robert said nothing. He was fascinated by how easily others could express themselves without worrying about what someone else might think. He began to ponder what listening means: how vitally important it is to hear exactly what another person is saying and to filter the utterances through the self without using criticism as a weapon to destroy the exchange. Before long, he would begin to discover the power of expression and the grave responsibilities that accompany that power.

On the first night, as Robert and others had fallen asleep, suddenly there came a racket of fists pounding on doors while Paul’s voice was heard shouting “Night hike! Night hike! Put on your oldest clothes! Night hike!”

An other-worldly experience was transpiring! Groggy and disoriented, Robert put on old jeans and a sweatshirt. He joined the other counselors outside the A-frame as Paul’s flashlight raked the ground.

“Is this everybody?” he asked. “Mick, our able-bodied Night hike leader, will explain.”

Mick said, “I will be the only person with a flashlight, but I won’t use it, unless I have to. Everyone take the hand of the person behind you. Always remember that your duty is to help that person. Never let go of that person’s hand! We will be slipping and sliding over rough terrain, and, many times, the person behind you will need your helping hand. Let’s go!”

In single file with hands clasped, the group quickly entered the forested hills. Pam was three people ahead of Robert. In the deep darkness of the woods, the counselors snaked along on a trail so thin that only Mick new where it was. Twice, they crossed ravines on logs, and no one fell! At first, everyone chatted, but, after a while, there were only occasional statements that offered assistance. Robert heard Pam say to the person behind her, “There’s a muddy hole to your right, so keep to your left.”

Suddenly, Robert emerged from the velvety shadows. Moonlight filtered downward and sparkled on the ripples of the Wabash River. The air itself seemed aglow from the moonbeams. No one spoke. The water murmured and whispered where it lapped the shore.

Everyone walked in beauty.

Eventually, the now silent line reentered the forest.

To the tune of shuffling feet, thoughts ran in deep channels. Robert felt increasingly responsible for the counselors behind him and, symmetrically, for the counselors before him. He was beginning to understand the paramount significance of connection to others. When the group crossed a log in the night, they were one person with hands clasped, and no pearl could fall from the necklace.

Arriving back at the A-frame, counselors were eager to talk about the experience. Many stayed up half of the night, Robert among them.

The next morning, Robert felt invigorated, not fatigued. He watched the golden sunlight bathe the breathing leaves of the trees. The staff and the counselors took part in a flag-raising ceremony before filing into the cafeteria for breakfast. Robert sat across from Pam in her peasant dress and pigtails.

“And how is Robert this morning?” Pam asked.

“I slept great,” Robert replied.

“I did, too,” Pam said. “After the Night Hike, I wasn’t sure I could go back to sleep, but the conversation afterward was so peaceful I could feel myself drifting.”

Just then, Pam’s older cousin Bonnie came past the table and said hello. Bonnie was on the staff as a recreation leader in charge of the swimming pool, ball courts, and playing fields. The sun had bleached Bonnie’s blonde hair almost white.

Turning to Pam, Bonnie said in her customary tone of frank good nature, “I heard you went on a Night Hike. Now you understand the expression ‘easy as falling off a log.’”

Pam laughed. “What are you up to today?”

Bonnie said, “I have to drive into Lafayette for some pool supplies. Let me know if you need anything.”

Pam said, “I think I have everything I need, but it’s kind of you to offer.”

“If you think of anything, catch me at the pool office in the next half hour,” Bonnie said, moving on in her usual energetic way.

“I wonder what’s in store for us this morning,” Pam said to Robert.

They soon found out, as Bill, a roly-poly recreation leader in his forties, ran the counselors and staff through an hour of hilarious games. He explained that, throughout the summer, he would be keeping the campers in similar good spirits through music and fun. Packing his speech with lingo like “far out,” “can you dig it,” and “outa sight”—all such expressions uttered with an ironic nod to popular culture—Bill kept everybody laughing. Robert needed no encouragement to unleash his sense of humor, but he was learning from Bill to be “laid back” and not take everything so seriously.

The three hours before dinner had been set aside for socializing or quiet reflection, so Pam and Robert invited any interested counselors to visit their hometown. A group of seven, counting Robert and Pam, took bicycles from the recreation building and began the ten-mile ride to Pine Village. The others were from such places as Aurora, Anderson, and Shelbyville. Gliding between flat or gently rolling land with small corn and bean plants in neat green rows, the bicyclists coasted along like a family of barn swallows sailing on outstretched wings. Picture-perfect white clouds drifted beneath the azure dome. Cows with lowered heads grazed the meadows. Reaching the town, Pam and Robert invited the riders into the corner grocery for soft drinks. After pedaling around the town and strolling past the businesses, they walked their bikes to the Methodist Church, parked them, went up the stairs, and through the unlocked door. Everyone admired the stained glass windows while Robert played Bach on the piano. Finally, the group rode to the school and entered the gymnasium to see the diamond pattern of the ceiling beams reflected in the highly varnished floor.

“No wonder you love it here!” said a counselor named Jill. “Everything is so pretty and peaceful.”

The others nodded their approval of Jill’s observation.

Then the group made the ten-mile return trip. The riders were tired—but not too tired—when they rolled into the Hoosier 4-H Leadership Center. Over dinner, the excursionists talked excitedly about what they had seen in Pine Village.

Mike said, “It’s exactly what you want a town to be.”

On the evening of the fourth day of their training, the counselors enacted Native American stories that they had rehearsed. Carefully researched through Purdue University’s extensive anthropology collections, the narratives included personified animals and cosmic myths. The light from the flickering campfire reflected on their faces as the counselors performed. Later in the summer, they would lead campers to share the same stories.

As the firelight began to die down and the stories were finished, everyone had to remain silent for the rest of the night. Communication by hand signals was permitted, but talking was prohibited.

Back at the A-frame building, the counselors fought the temptation to speak. To utter words was an incredibly powerful urge—nearly involuntary! Like most of breathing, itself, using the breath to intone words was so natural that the act of remaining silent felt unnatural—at first.

Again and again catching himself before he broke the rule, Robert began to notice his breath. He could not recall a time when he had thought about breathing, except when he was a little boy and had tripped over a wire supporting a clothesline pole, thus knocking the air out of his lungs and having to fight for the next breath.

Robert thought, “I am alive now because of each breath I take.” He next thought, “This time will never come again.” Then he thought, “As long as I keep breathing, my life will go on from this place and time.” The subsequent thought was this: “This night will become only a memory.” Then: “It is already becoming a memory.” And: “Each memory is a construction of the mind because it no longer exists.” Suddenly: “The past and the future are unreal.” All at once: “This instant—this breath—this, alone, is real.”

Robert looked around at the other counselors, all silent and trying to communicate by gestures. Abruptly, the injunction to love your neighbor popped into his mind and resonated with a sense of urgency that it had never had previously.

The next morning, when talking had resumed, Robert felt he had glimpsed the peace that surpasses all words and that cannot be contained by them.

The training sessions had reached their conclusion. Pam and Robert served as counselors together during one of their two weeks of leading, guiding, and inspiring campers. Each had a separate second week. All went well. A year later, Robert returned to Ouibache for another training week and two weeks leading campers before he began his first fall semester as a college freshman.

Ever after that, Robert readily called to mind an image of spangles of moonlight dappling the Wabash River, of a campfire lighting the faces of counselors pretending to be crows or coyotes, and of the breath entering and leaving each person’s body.

   

22. The Snow and the Neighbor ... THE FARM EAST OF PINE VILLAGE

A winter came with snow that would not quit. Relentlessly, layer was added to layer with no single storm that would qualify for the record books but with freezing temperatures that permitted the snow to deepen inexorably.

Joe, Charles, and Robert trudged through narrow pathways to the barn to feed the cows. Although there was still plenty of water in the tank for the cattle to drink, Joe hoped there would be a break in the weather soon, so that he could start the Minneapolis–Moline Z and haul water from the well by the house to the tank beside the barn.

School was cancelled …

… and snow kept falling. Now no pathway existed. Only a shallow depression in the snow …

A day dawned bright and cold. Joe had just entered the house from the enclosed porch, where he had removed his boots and the first of two denim coats. He was still wearing one denim coat and his cap with the earflaps down. His nose and cheeks were rosy.

“Here’s something you won’t see every year,” Joe said to Robert while turning on the burner beneath the tea kettle and meticulously measuring Maxim instant coffee into a cup.

“What’s that?” Robert asked, looking up from reading Macbeth.

“Just come outside with me and take a look—after I warm up with a cup of coffee.”

While Joe sipped his coffee from a teaspoon, Robert wondered what was so extraordinary that his father wanted him to see it.

When Joe was ready to venture back outside, Robert donned his heaviest winter coat and his stocking cap. He put on his boots before stepping from the enclosed porch into the wintry landscape beyond the door. With an effort, Joe and Robert plodded in front of the shop building, their boots descending through only the top layers of snow and coming to rest precariously on lower layers.

“Well, what do you see?” Joe asked.

Robert squinted against the light reflected from the whitest of snows extending to an indistinct horizon of blowing glitter.

“Nothing,” Robert replied. “Just snow.”

Robert glanced at the maple tree and at the openings into the old garage appearing to be two small caves in a mound of snow.

“Nothing,” he repeated.

“That’s right!” Joe said. “Where are the fence posts?”

Robert turned toward where the road and the posts along it should have been. Nothing indicated that a road lay beneath the snow, and the posts had vanished. For a split second, Robert thought of asking where the posts had gone, but then he realized that they were under a blanket of snow. He could walk on snow above the fences!

“Wow!” was the full complement of his response.

If Robert half closed his eyes, he could detect slight waves and ridges formed by wind in the snow’s surface.

“Seldom does the snow get so deep that the tops of the fence posts are hidden,” Joe commented.

Several days passed. One morning, Robert looked through the picture window and saw a line of raisins through the snow. Suddenly, he realized they were not raisins but the tops of the posts along the road. The snow was melting!

Later—precisely when all that snow melted—the spring rains poured down as if the heavens were giant water bags that had burst.

School was cancelled …

… for mud! Rain kept falling, transforming the gravel roads into impassable corridors of mud. Vehicles mired and were abandoned.

During a deluge, Robert stared through the picture window. The widely spaced creeks and ditches in the flat land could not carry away the water fast enough, and the house, shop, and old garage appeared to be on an island in the middle of a lake.

The Rhode family’s nearest neighbor was Agnes Moore. She was in her eighties, but she enjoyed complete mobility and was so active that she seemed much younger than her years. Every sunup, except on the coldest days of the winter, she walked briskly down the gravel road with her black Spaniel, Lady, by her side. In the stillness of daybreak, Robert heard Agnes’ footsteps crunching the gravel road. “Agnes is up,” thought Robert.

Along with playing piano for the Methodist Church, Robert worked with the Vacation Bible School. Agnes served as an instructor. Each morning, Robert picked her up and drove her to the church.

Agnes taught the youngsters to make churches by gluing Popsicle sticks to milk cartons. Meanwhile, she and Robert designed a more elaborate structure of their own. After a few days of diligent gluing, their Popsicle church was a veritable cathedral!

At about the same time, Agnes called Joe to ask him to use her gun to drop raccoons that Lady had treed in Agnes’ apple orchard. Robert thought, “A lot of good that will do! Dad doesn’t know anything about guns.” Ida did not permit guns on the farm, as she was afraid of accidents involving children. Joe walked up the road to Agnes’ farm. Soon, Robert heard two light reports of a gun, so he thought he might as well go to see if Dad had had any luck. Robert met Agnes and Joe at her door. She was putting her gun away.

“I heard only two shots,” Robert commented.

“That’s all it took,” Joe said.

Seeing Robert’s look of amazement, Agnes asked, “Don’t you know that your father has always been a crack shot?”

Robert felt like Scout learning about Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. Back when Joe was a lad, he trained himself to be an excellent marksman. Given Ida’s proscription against guns, Robert had had no cause to discover Joe’s skill.

Agnes provided another link to Joe’s past, for she had remembered his ability with firearms. Agnes was also a link to the community’s future through the lessons she taught to the children in the Vacation Bible School. Little by little, Robert came to appreciate how remarkable Agnes was and how fascinating her life had been. Robert came to learn that she and her husband, who predeceased her by many years, had built the tidy house that Robert often visited. Overlooking the kitchen on the ground level was a higher living room accessible by a few steps and bordered by a neatly turned railing. Until Robert discovered that Agnes and her husband had planned and constructed their house, Robert thought that it might be another of the pre-packaged houses that Sears had sold in the early 1900s. The excellence of the craftsmanship and the high polish of the woodwork reminded him of Sears houses. On several winter mornings, Ida sent Robert to deliver fresh baked goods to Agnes’ door. Robert enjoyed the pleasant warmth of Agnes’ wood-burning stove and the coziness of the home that she had created with her own two hands.

Even during the most isolated periods when snow or mud kept Robert from driving anywhere, he had only to look to the east to feel that he and his family were not alone. There stood Agnes’ comfortable house, her perfectly maintained barn with its bright red paint, and her well-designed garage nestled beside rows of apple trees.