Peace, Grace, and Jazz!

{I made up the word, I guess: roomlessness. But you get the idea. We’re at the last of my Lenten writings on “room(s).” And I have to note that not everyone has one.}

Most of us, and I’d imagine the vast majority of anyone reading this blog, have had a room. When we were kids, when we referred to our room it was a bedroom. We might have shared that room with siblings, or might have enjoyed the privacy and freedom of having our own room. It was not just a place to sleep, but to play in, or sulk in, or to be sent to. “Go to your room!”

I’ve written previously of my rooms in youth and adolescence. So no need to rehearse that again. I feel blessed to have had a space of my own. Not everyone does. Joan is on the Mission Committee at church and they’ve begun a relationship with a middle school a couple of blocks away. It never dawned on us that some of the families that send kids to that neighborhood school live in motels. The needs for them are varied: food, health kits, even haircuts. And how many family members are packed into that motel room?

Some probably feel quite ‘blessed’ to have any room at all. Behind a local McDonalds we saw a tent and inquired about it. “Oh, that guy’s been camped there for several days. Not sure who owns the property, but ‘they’ won’t let him stay much longer.” Winters get cold here, and for one reason or another, a tent is his home. And maybe he feels lucky to have some shelter, any shelter, against the wintry winds. Our daughter’s family has made a visit or two to an encampment in their nearby city to deliver blankets and coats to tent and box dwellers. Someone set fire to the place. What kind of person does that? Someone who’s never “been there.”

Then there are the families that line the sidewalks, having come (or having been forced) into our cities seeking refuge. The news stories follow an arc of sorts. It’s news this week, and next week we’ll forget there’s a problem, unless we happen to drive those streets and witness the desperation ourselves. A couple of weeks later, it’s all on the news again, and we wish someone would do something about it. Our wishes are different. Some want the roomless to just disappear, or “go back to where they came from.” Others visit with food. Some people of faith offer showers, meals, clothing. And you’ve probably heard that in some cities, civil authorities have odered churches to stop ministering to those in need. They create a nuisance. They pose a threat. They block the sidewalk. They scare our children. Too bad about your religious freedom to serve the poor. Oh, Jesus.

Years ago when I was working with our church youth group, our Director of Christian Education arranged for the senior highs to visit a homeless shelter. We took chocolate chip cookies to share as we listened to the stories of the many residents. (Was the place called “The Bunkhouse?”) While a couple of folks there said they’d lived on the streets for many years and had grown not only accustomed to it, but actually preferred it (“I love my freedom!”), many more shared lives difficult to grasp, situations that were tragic. They lived with mistrust, despair, loneliness. But thank you for the cookies!

Within a couple of years, that church joined with several others in an ecumenical ministry to provide warm shelter and a hot meal each night during the winter months. Each church took a week and had volunteer hosts to welcome the bus from downtown at the end of the day, offering cots, restrooms, some light recreation (board games, movies), and supper. (Probably breakfast too.) I was on staff there during one of our weeks, and spent a night in my study, occasionally moving through the building helping other church folk “keep watch over the flock by night.”

Just a few weeks ago, a city near our present home announced a grant that would provide some “tiny houses” for veterans, as well as other apartment units, with the hope that the money might make a dent in the problem of homelessness in the community. We also read of old buildings being converted into “affordable” living units, again hoping to address the lack of housing in city neighborhoods. Good steps.

I have no solutions to offer. Not even advice. Except for those of us so comfortably and safely at home under a roof and with room to spare: we cannot avert our eyes, nor ignore the voices, or assume this roomlessness of which I write will evaporate. People of faith have a mandate from the one who, scriptures say, had nowhere to lay his head. It is certainly implied in the list from Matthew 25: I was hungry…thirsty…a stranger…naked…sick…in prison…[and you cared for me].

In fact, Eugene Peterson, in his paraphrase of Matthew 25 in The Message put it this way.

I was hungry and you fed me, I was thirsty and you gave me a drink, I was homeless and you gave me aroom, I was shivering and you gave me clothes, I was sick and you stopped to visit, I was in prison and you came to me. … Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me–you did it to me.

Jesus

As this series comes to an end, I offer my thanks to those who have made comments on this site, or who have reached out through email or Facebook, sharing their own thoughts about this year’s Lenten theme. I’ve always thought of this blog as my personal reflection space, and except for a handful of “subscribers,” most of what I type here remains somethnig like a private journal. That is, until one of those “tags” winds up in a search bar, maybe years later, and a visitor to the blog finds my thoughts at least “interesting” if not helpful.

So, yes, thank you for reading. Lent 2024 is ending. Tomorrow marks a new beginning, Easter. All things new! Except here. No words tomorrow or for coming days or weeks. Spring is arriving and my mornings will require my complete attention, away from the keyboard.

Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

{Good Friday…and this series of casual, unplanned, personal yet “blogly” public writings about “room(s)” is coming to an end. One more, tomorrow. But there is today, and I am wondering how to write about my chosen 2024 topic on Crucifixion Day. Let’s see what happens, shall we?”}

The soldiers brought Jesus to Golgotha, meaning “Skull Hill.” …They nailed him up at nine o’clock in the morning…Along with him, they crucified two criminals, one to his right, the other to his left. People passing along the road jeered…

Gospel According to Mark 15:22 25, 27, 29; from Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase, “The Message”

In 1982 I was the keynote speaker at the Montreat Youth Conference, a denomination-wide youth event held in the Presbyterian “Mecca,” Montreat, NC. The theme of the conference that year was “Cross Connections,” and I was to speak each day before about 1000 teens and their adult leaders. (The annual conference was so popular, we held an identical gatherings the following week.) I had worked with the conference planning committee to come up with a topic each day related to the broad theme. Then, I took a few days in a retreat of sorts to write at my friend Jim’s place in a D. C. suburb. As I recall, the conference went very well. I even had a minister in the crowd who said (and this was a very high compliment), “Your presentations remind me of Frederick Buechner.” But there was also criticism following one morning’s keynote.

I had taken Malcolm Boyd’s book The Alleluia Affair and turned it into a dramatic reading, with parts assigned to a team of youth and a couple of adults. (I may have asked the publisher for permission, but that detail is lost in foggy memory banks. Let’s say I did.) The book begins with Jesus pulling himself off a large crucifix cross in an Indianapolis church, then from a Manhattan church, and sixty churches in Paris. From San Francisco to Sydney, Prague to Peking, Jesus pulled free from church crosses and walked into the streets. The world’s religious leaders reacted with consternation, issuing all kinds of verbose counsel and warnings. Boyd says, “People ignored the religious leaders, preferring to confront Jesus in the streets and talk to him face-to-face.” He’d be in a diner, for example, breaking bread in the form of a hamburger roll and sharing coffee.

Then the Jesus figures portrayed in stained glass windows throughout Christendom came alive and shattered the glass and leaped out and dove into humanity, wearing prison stripes, joining migrant workers, selling tickets in bus stations, staying at YMCAs, and getting temporary work permits. The world reeled, and faith became alive for millions.

Under the empty crosses and the broken windows, scrolls were found, all with words from the teachings of Jesus. “When you give a feast, invite the poor…” “Judge not that you be not judged.” “Blessed are the poor in spirit…” “I was a stranger and you did not welcome me.”

Boyd’s writing then takes a turn when suddenly people find on those empty crosses people whose stories we’d rather not hear. The crucified of our culture. A starving child. An unmarried teen mother scorned by her family. A black man in prison stripes, a woman clad in jeweled high fashion, but drunk. An untouchable from Bombay. An abused youth.

Interestingly, the critical response I received from one adult in the youth conference masses wasn’t about the empty crosses or the newly crucified of our times, but Boyd’s targeting of larger, more affluent churches. The critic had come from one of those churches. He was probably right: the book aimed its complaint toward the more prominant churches and church leaders like bishops and denominational execs. But the book’s imaginative premise was nonetheless a powerful reminder that we as a society do condemn Jesus’ sisters and brothers to crosses we have fashioned from our bigotry, racism, and all manner of injustices.

When I had first moved to our retirement home, I had to find a new barber. I chose the one in the heart of the shopping district. One morning, his TV was reporting on Barack Obama’s initial run for the White House. With my haircut finished, I headed for the door and the barber said to me, “I know what we can do with that guy! Get some wood and matches, right?” I was so stunned, I couldn’t speak. (Damn it.) But I never went back.

You see, there is still room on Skull Hill for those with whom we disagree politically, those we’d rather not have living next door, and those whose complexion or gender identity or mental confusion breeds fear in our hearts. I could use this crucifixion day to name my enemies, the ones Jesus said it’d be best to love. I could name names. “Lock ’em up!” “String ’em up!” I confess I have a collection of nails. But instead of hearing my confession, why not listen to your own heart.

God so loved the world, the cosmos, every creature, so much that God gave the Son…who walks among us now, as the beloved, the unknown, the condemned, the ignored, the hungry, the job-less, the victim and the perp, and the room-less. Lord, when did we see thee…? Or, maybe we’d think, “Lord, if you’d just go back to your place in the stained glass…wouldn’t that be a more holy dwelling place for you? And less threatening for us?” We could then blend our voices in singing, “Beneath the cross of Jesus…”

But now. I must examine my own heart. How much more room is there on that hill?

{Holy Thursday, Maundy Thursday, the night before…Since Lent began, I have been writing about “room(s).” Today, that one upstairs, where Jesus broke bread with his true family for the last time.}

Tonight I will lead a service of Holy Communion at a local Presbyterian Church. We will gather in small groups around a table in the front of the sanctuary, and I will say what we call “The Words of Institution,” words from scripture in which the Apostle Paul “instituted” or initiated the way we remember that night when Jesus headed from table to betrayal.

Though we think of this night as a kind of reenactment of the Last Supper, it is nowhere near that. We cannot pretend we know the hearts of Jesus and disciples as they reclined at table for the meal. Some churches do try to make this night into quite the production number, perhaps serving a copy of the Passover Meal to worshippers gathered at tables, with explanations of the various traditional elements of the meal, and then engaging in the ritual of footwashing, followed by the sharing of the Sacrament. Maybe they will then sing a hymn as the disciples did as the meal ends and people go home to TV. But liturgy is not “play acting.” Please, I intend no judgment here. My point is that there is no way to capture the true drama of that evening in the upper room, then in the garden, and then into the darkest of nights.

The church we where we usually worship has gathered folk in the fellowship hall on Maundy Thursday evening, around the tables normally used for church luncheons and dinners. In the context of a worship service there, the people serve one another bread and cups of “the fruit of the vine” (our nomenclature for the grape juice we use in place of wine), and with the reading of scripture passages, candles are eventually extinguished until the room is darkened. And the direction is that we leave the hall in silence. Of course, some folks can’t help themselves, and chat on the way home…to TV.

I do like that model. Even more meaningful, though not practical for such a large group, would be to have the meal in the church’s “upper room.” A couple of weeks ago in this series, I wrote of “tower rooms” and our church has one. It would be cramped, but certainly a special place, set apart, and carefully prepared for this special night. I can only imagine it, however: candle light, a table set with dinnerware, hunks of bread (no, not unleavened…no need to be that fundamental), and vessels of wine, real rich, red wine…with Welches for those for whom wine would be a serious problem. But here I am, making it into a period drama. No, it’s to be a simple act of remembrance.

And what is it that we are remembering? An upper room? Last meal? Disciples wholly and holy converted into family? The special and very careful arrangements Jesus made for the use of this upstairs room? Feet being washed and servant love being taught by example? Judas’ early exit? No. Indeed the question is put wrong. It should be “Who is it we are remembering? Jesus. “Whenever you do this, remember me.” Or, as Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase has it: “This bread…eat it in my memory.”

So, this Sacrament, whether called “Holy Communion” or “Eucharist” or “The Lord’s Supper,” is a meal (simple as it is with mere bits and sips!) of remembrance, and yes, like the Jewish Passover. (By the way, John’s Gospel has this farewell meal on the eve of Passover, not on Passover night itself. But that Jesus was betrayed and arrested and killed during the Jewish feast of liberation is of great significance theologically. So significant that I never should have placed that sentence within parentheses. Sorry.)

I quote my dear friend and colleague the late Lamar Williamson here, a summary paragraph from his Interpretation commentary on Mark’s Gospel.

Nothing is haphazard about Jesus’ death nor about the meal he shares with his disciples in preparation for it. All occurs by divine appointment, coupled with careful and conscious preparation by the participants. The principle still holds true: Time and place must be prepared if this established ritual is to serve effectively as a point of intersection with ultimate reality.

Lamar Williamson, “Interpretation,” John Knox Press

Tonight then, the sanctuary where I am guest worship leader is arranged for tables up front (Presbyterians do not have altars), liturgy carefully chosen, choir and organ music rehearsed, bread and grape juice ready for serving– and we shall remember Jesus. We will not think casually about that night so long ago. We will retell the story of that supper, partake of the “elements” (such a strange word for bread and cup), and pause ever so briefly in silence to meditate on our own place at his Table. Our own place in his story, and his life in us.

And for the rest of our stories in this life, we shall commit ourselves to follow his commandment to love one another, so that people will know we are his disciples, his family still. Dirty feet and all.

{No, we’re not ending this series on “room(s)” early. Still have the rest of this Holy Week to go, but I’m writing about my very last resting place. The last place I’ll take up space.}

We’ve made our final plans. Our exit from this earthly life. Across the street from our church is a funeral home. A few blocks away is our church cemetery, located where the first church building stood in 1791. It seemed convenient to tie everything up in a nice bow in that neighborhood, my boyhood haunts. (Hmmm. Might be a better word in this context, huh?)

So, Joan and I have made the “arrangements.” Joan’s service is planned; I’m procrastinating, fighting closer fires, you might say. (Oh, dear; “fires”– not a good choice?) But I’ll get around to it. We’ll have services at the church, with the funeral home having little to do with that part. There’ll be urns. I was pleasantly surprised that the nice guy at the funeral home didn’t try to push us into any unnecessary expenses. When we said simple, he took us at our word.

Joan’s favorite thing to do is to walk in the woods. So, there, along some lovely forest trail, she will rest. And I? I’ll be in a tiny “room” in Riverside Cemetery. Larry, the church cemetery manager, showed us “plots.” I chose one on the edge of the property, along a road where I once delivered newspapers, right under the protection of a chain link fence. Not exactly romantic nor scenic. But enough for what’s left of me.

I like having a “place.” And a stone of some sort, so that if a future generation wanted to find some family history in my hometown, there’d be a marker. I told Larry of my plans for a tombstone. Grave marker. Head stone. Or, what our son Jim called “deadstones” as we passed by cemeteries in his childhood. Since I spent so many years playing music on the radio, my final resting place will have a jukebox-sized stone, complete with a solar-powered MP3 playback system. Visitors could then plug in private headphones or maybe listen via Bluetooth to recordings of old “Celebration Rock” programs or jazz shows. Two problems occur. A) The media will be out-of-date soon after I am. So, we’d have to have access to the innards of my monument (“my monument” has nice ring to it!), so the president of my fan club could adjust the system to whatever media is (are) current. And B) In Upstate New York, it seems cloudy most of the time, so the solar panels might not work all the time. I’ll have to contract with Binghamton University’s lithium-ion battery geniuses to bring my deadstone to life on overcast days.

I’d write more today, but I have to keep transferring old shows onto digital files so my jukebox is ready to go…when I’m ready to go.

Except…wait! There was problem C.

C) Larry didn’t approve. Nor did the bank when I told the manager how much cash I needed to pay for this endeavor. So, simplicity it is. My last room: a hole in the ground. Pre-paid.

{Lent is fast coming to a close, and I have just a few rooms yet to explore. Thank you for reading these reflections. I write mostly for myself, an exercise to do something different as a Lenten discipline; I guess I could have done this in a private journal. Hmmm. Maybe next time.}

Joan and I have never had much of an attic, but the one we have now could practically be a rec room. It’s huge. And seasonal. Frigid up there right now. And in July, it’ll be too hot to do anything but quickly retrieve LPs for my radio show. (How those records weather the weather (pun intended) , I do not know. Maybe it’s because they are packed tightly side by side. The point is, we aren’t supposed to count that attic room as living space anyway; house rules.

We live in a small retirement community of nine homes. Until our house was built, the homes included basements for utilities and storage. But there’s a wetland beyond our backyards, and the two newest homes were built on slabs to avoid the occasional wet cellar. Thus, no basement space here. The other thing is, to keep things equal among us retired Presby-pastor types, we are all required to live only on one floor. Saves the landlords (a committee) from rescuing folks who tripped up or down stairs. Still, most of our neighbors in the older homes have put that basement space to good use. Turns out, it’s cool in the summer and warmish in the winter thanks to the furnaces. So, we residents of the newer homes have a whole second floor attic instead…to be used for storage.

I’ll return to that situation momentarily. But first, back to the Kellams having had little attic experience. The townhouse apartment we called our first home had one of those pull-down stairways leading to some attic space. In early marriage years, we had little to store besides suitcases and some Christmas decorations. The first real house we bought had a similar creaky pull-down contraption. It wasn’t fun to climb up there, but the builder had placed some plywood above the living room area, so we had some space for attic “stuff.” We laugh about this now, but the day I slipped up there and put my leg through the living room ceiling wasn’t that fun at the time. On second thought, after my embarrassment passed and we determined that my leg wasn’t injured, I think we did see the humor in the situation, and Joan may have grabbed a camera. Don’t look for the photo here.

Next new home…just like the first, but without the hole in the ceiling. Then came the Vermont manse, our first, and only, church-owned home. That was an interesting story. It was an old Vermont farmhouse design with the barn attached to the house so the occupants needn’t go too far to check on things in -20 degree cold. But a previous occupant of the manse, a pastor with not enough experience in raking and burning the lovely fall leaves of New England, had let a fire get too close to the barn and he set it on fire. Thankfully, the home itself was saved, and the barn area was rebuilt as a garage. Over the garage and over part of the living area, there was large attic space with a nice window lookng out on the front lawn. The overhead timbers, however, were charred, and flakes of the fire’s damage from forty-plus years earier fell into the attic, covering everything we stored there. No big deal, just ashy, and messy to clean up.

I once wondered aloud if that space might be renovated into, oh maybe a radio studio, or a study. But as soon as church elder Albert Urie heard me hint at that idea, he brusquely brushed it aside. “There’s more than enough space in this old house for anyone!!” (Yes, two exclamation points.) He was right, of course. We came to appreciate the old Vermont saying, “Enough,” meaning there’s no use coveting; there’s enough. I believe it now.

Funny though. Years after Joan and I had left and a couple of other pastors too, the church remodeled part of that charred attic into a lovely bedroom. Turned out, they had to. The fire-damaged beams had become dangerously weak, so some renovation was necessary. (Another word we came to respect in rural Vermont: necessary. Is it, or isn’t it? Live accordingly.)

We moved to another old house when we took up residence at a church near Ithaca. Attic? Sure, but it was not accessible except for the very clever and foolhardy. There was no pull-down stair in that old house. Only a push-up panel. And that was located above the two-story entry way. Unless one placed scaffolding across the open staircase, there was no way to use the attic. Now, we had a lot of space under the house…a very, very primitive cellar, very damp. (No wonder my LPs have a bit of moldy-oldie aroma.) But I sure wish I could have gone up in that old house to discover what treasures might have been left behind generations ago. I’d have had to fight off the wasps and hornets though. We let them be. It wasn’t necessary.

Now, finally…have you enjoyed the tour so far?…back to our retirement home, the last one we’ll ever occupy. That big attic. Yes, there’s storage up there and my spring project will be to sort and toss. I guess I don’t really need my systematic theology notes from seminary any more. Or that photo of our 1970 Ford Torino. I know there must be someone out there who wants my retired 35mm cameras. But aside from the debris, we have toys in the attic.

When we saw the space, and knew we weren’t supposed to live up there, we decided we could probably play up there. So, we bought a ping pong table. Joan and I had won the ping pong tournament at the Pocono honeymoon resort just days after we said our vows. So, that table seemed a good investment to polish our competitive skills. Plus, my old recording equipment is up there, and some of it still works. Some. But mostly, it’s the N-scale railroad layout that sits on two side-by-side former ping pong tables (not to be confused with the newer one we had bought).

When I retired, I took the little train setup I had carried along for a few years and took it more seriously. I bought more rolling stock, added additonal locomotives, built a village, a farm, an industrial area, piece by piece. Some plastic or wood kits, a couple of brass structures, tiny people to populate the town, cars and tracks, trees, etc., etc. I took years to build it, and enjoyed watching my grandsons run the trains. So, yeah…toys in the attic. It’s been too long since I played with the trains. Frankly, my passion was building and landscaping, rather than worrying which freight car was headed where and carrying what. The trains just go round the periphery of the tables, uncouple, crash, and cause trouble. Did I mention I have a broadcast tower and a drive-in movie? And a school baseball field? That for me was the fun part.

It was enough. And totally unnecessary.

{As we enter the last week of Lent 2024, I am looking at only six more rooms in my series. Today, I consider what it must mean to be locked up in a cell for a night or a lifetime.}

I was locked up at the maximum security Virginia State Penitentiary more than once. I had not been sentenced there, however. I was there for “work.” And each time, I was let go only hours later. But my brief experiences there are still vivid memories. To paraphrase the old saw, “It’s not a nice place to visit, and I for sure wouldn’t want to live there.”

The Virginia State Penitentiary had been located in Richmond since its founding in 1800. Thomas Jefferson was behind a reform movement of some sort, and he designed a building to house inmates. That design was never used, but (and this is fascinating to me) the initial building design came from none other than Benjamin Henry Latrobe. It was his first American design; he later designed the United States Capitol up the road in Washington. When I first entered the penitentiary, it was said that the oldest building still standing dated way back to the early 19th century, and it was still being used.

[Note: the whole penal facility was demolished in 1991, and the maximum security prison is now in Greensville County, Va. Lovely name for the home of their electric chair.]

I first entered the Richmond facility in the late 1970s, and when I say I was locked up there…well, of course, any visitor is locked in. I entered, was searched for contraband of all sorts, and was buzzed into and beyond the very imposing prison gates. Then I was escorted across the open prison yard to a classroom where I was to address the Prison Civil War Roundtable. I had been invited by the group because one inmate had heard my radio program. On it I had featured the music of a Native American rock group called Xit. I had also interviewed some members of the Virginia Mataponi tribe about their history and then-current position in American culture, centering on social justice issues. The inmate found the convervation and the music so interesting that he thought I would fit into the discussions the inmates were having about the American Civil War Era.

I’m pretty sure I lugged some playback equipment into the classroom, with the permission of my prison contact, perhaps the chaplain, the Rev. Bill Dent. The worst part of the event there was that initial entrance into the ancient facility, the clanking of the bars as the front gate closed behind me. Then there was a walk through the yard between buildings, knowing I was being watched by scores of inmates. (This was the era of rioting by prisoners at Attica and other institutions.) But the reception by grateful members of the Round Table, their attention to my comments and the music I’d brought (maybe the inmates just loved the group’s name: Xit!), made for a very positive experience that afternoon. Naturally, my remarks had been less-than-comprehensive and probably didn’t add much to the inmates’ understanding of the issues faced by Native Peoples. And they could have spent hours educating me about the Civil War. It was an afternoon well-spent for us all, but I was glad to escape.

As I think about the proliferation of white supremacy gangs in today’s prison facilities, I am trying to recall the racial make-up of the Round Table participants so interested in the Civil War. I can’t remember. I wonder about that.

Another visit, maybe five years later: our church “couples club” had heard about the offerings of the “Spring Street Theater,” and took in a Friday night play offered by the prisoners. [The penitentiary was located on Spring Street not far from Richmond’s downtown.] It isn’t surprising that what I remember most about the evening is not the play, but the general experience of our church group seeing this as an interesting way to spend an evening…behind those fortified bars, watching inmates perform, seeing the result of their wanting to tell a story to the outside.

Finally, there was the invitation of a chaplain associated with the Virginia Council of Churches. He wanted to describe to church folk what being in prison is like. I was invited to bring my still camera and an audiocassette recorder into a cell block to record brief interviews and take slides of the general conditions there. That we had gotten permission for this project still surprises me. Apparently, the prison officials had some say over what we reported (and what we recorded, for that matter), but I recall no censorship once the audio-visual production was edited. One inmate was a young man who appeared frightened, and vulnerable. He told me of how unsafe he felt even in his cell, what it was like to be incarcerated in the general population, and he noted the screaming we heard echoing through the cell block, a cry I can still hear now. The shouting was not so much anger, but lament. It was on the tape as we played it back on the soundtrack and later on my radio program. Haunting.

In our conversations with inmates on all three occasions, we knew enough to never ask, “What are you in for?” Better we didn’t know. They had already been judged by juries of their peers.

As I type this I recall one other visit with inmates, but not at Spring Street. This was a video my colleague Billie Brightwell and I made at a women’s corrections facility in a county west of Richmond. That visit was very different from the others. I think we had two recording sessions there, and the women, sitting in a circle, told their stories, shed some tears, and offered us honest appraisals of their situations. Afterword, one person back home had recognized one of the women prisioners in the video and told us of her horrific crime. Again, better we had not known that day.

I have other stories of my media-mediated visits to cells and their occupants. One young man told his story of being befriended by an older man who had known him from the neighborhood (and from church) before the kid had gotten into trouble. We told that story in a video I produced for the national organization of Presbyterian Men. It was called “Mentors and Proteges.” The young man’s mentor had helped build bridges back into society, aiding in the protege’s restoration into the community. The mentor, a meat cutter at the A&P Market, told of how all the adults in his downtown neighborhood were responsible for one another’s children’s behaviors. I took it that it was a kind of surrogate parenthood when any kid was getting into trouble. The mentor was still dedicating himself to nurturing the recently released young man.

I tend to write sometimes with tongue-in-cheek or with a light touch, even about serious matters. I hope I have escaped that (for the most part) today. Serious, even tragic matters lead to convictions and sentencing to cells. There are victims of every crime. Directly, indirectly. And I am certain that some (many?) who are locked up were initially victims, too. Poverty. Racism. Mental health and addiction. Youth without nurturing homes. Various injustices. No, those conditions may explain but do not excuse laws or persons broken. But meeting prisoners where they are does remind us of their humanity, for better, for worse.

“Lord, when did we see you…?

“I was in prison, and you visited me.” — Jesus.

{Sigh. Here we go again: another room in my Lenten series of essays, mostly just personal ramblings posted publicly about “room(s).” Let’s go back to high school.}

When I was in high school, the fortress-like building held three grades. Ninth grade had been lodged in something called “junior high school,” and the actual “high” school was grades 10-12. Today, I write of my senior year at Union-Endicott High. And my homeroom.

Frankly, it’s the only homeroom I can remember in high school. I have only a vary vague memory of of the previous homerooms where I found myself earlier. Maybe I remember the last one because I took photos of it. Mr. Gallagher (Bill was his never-spoken first name) was only in his second year at U-E as a speech/drama teacher when he anchored our homeroom. Most of us in room 212 had been together in previous homerooms since the school liked to keep us organized by last names; thus, I was in with the H-M crowd. (Only guessing the actual alphabet here; maybe it was J through L? It was a very long time ago.)

I never had Mr. Gallagher for class, just as our homeroom teacher. So, absolutely no drama day by day. I remember him as being a fairly serious guy, with rare smiles, yet friendly enough. I think my most personal interaction with him was in the senior play, a theatrical production that the senior class starred in, a comedy entitled “Are Teachers Human?” Mr. Gallagher was the director, and I played “against type,” a football coach! I remember my “costume,” a heavy black U-E letter sweater that had long since lost its letters. But it made me look bulkier than I was back then.

The room itself was not nearly as important as the students who gathered there each morning and regathered by day’s end. I still remember some of their names. Recent 50 and 60 year reunions helped re-connect a few of us. Many, of course, are gone, and their permanent records more permanent than ever. Viet Nam took a couple of guys, I suspect. But I’m still in touch with a handful. That comes from retiring back close to where my life started, near my hometown. Plus, Facebook helps. I had two terrific cousins in my senior class, John and Linda. But the alphabet kept us from being in the same homeroom. John’s no longer with us, but Linda and I feel a real loving kinship (as we should as cousins) though miles apart.

I should note that the sweater had originally belonged to either my Dad or his older sister Vivian! Never did get the story straight. But the main thing is that I was attending the same school my parents and their siblings had attended a generation earlier. In fact, some of their teachers were still on the faculty.

I needn’t go into much detail about a homeroom and its ambiance since you probably have your own stories about that time in your life. The desks still had inkwells; the crackly PA speaker produced the morning announcements made by both the principal Mr. Bortnick and a student named Neal Hale, and bells rung to send us off to class after class. An ancient black Bakelite telephone intercom provided a communication link to the school office. Bakelite? You may know it by its more popular name: poly­oxy­benzyl­methylene­glycol­anhydride.

Here’s the main thing that I think about when reminiscing about Room 212: of those who remain in this earthy life, what’s life like for them? Did they live up to their yearbook prognostications or scribbled notes over their senior pictures? Are some still good friends? I know many in our class married. How many moved away and never came back? What vocations did they pursue? How’d that work out for them? One, Richie Karl, was on the U-E golf team and became a pro, winning a PGA tour event, the B.C. Open, …in his hometown! And then he taught golf. So, that story I know, because it was public. But most stories of my classmates were more personal and private.

When I moved back here near my hometown, I had hoped to reconnect with Harry Komar, Mike D’Aloisio (the car salesman, not the noted Elmira coach by the same name), and Jack Mastro. But they died before I got around to contacting them. They had been some of my closer friends, and it was very sad that I took it for granted that we’d have plenty of time…

Girl friends? I know you are wondering. Look, I had a job. I didn’t have much of a personality, and I didn’t fill out that letter sweater with muscles. And I was introverted. And insecure. Get the picture? I did date for the bigger events, and took a couple of girls to movies. Even parked up on Round Top, the hilltop overlooking the village. You know, submarine races on the Susquehanna. My main girlfriend wasn’t a classmate, however. She was in our church youth group and attended the rival high school just across the river. So, she came to my prom and I went to hers. Plus lots of dates. We were still a couple well into college years, though on two separate vocational tracks in two different states. Then, I met Joan. I majored in her in college, married her in seminary, and she is currently making me dinner.

I had lots of friends in high school, though I wasn’t close to many of them. I wasn’t an athlete, nor a musican, and I didn’t make it into Key Club. But my friends came from many of those circles, quite a well-rounded cadre of pals and gals. (That sounds quaint, doesn’t it?) I was primarily known as the class photographer, so being on the athletic fields with players who liked seeing their pictures in the weekly U-E newspaper got me some good buddies on the teams. And being in the band color guard (back when real men carried those rifles and flags!) got me into the good graces of band members, plus good seats at football games. My grades were only adequate. Plus there was that personality thing. That kept me out of Key Club. (When I half-kiddingly whined about that at our 50th class reunion, the one time Key Club official Peter Pazzaglini proclaimed me an honorary member of Key Club. But there was no jacket.)

I wonder now and then how I am remembered by my classmates? Nice guy? Geek? Maybe not at all? And I think about how I made far more of myself in the years that led into and well past adulthood than even I would have thought. Did anyone catch me on TV last Sunday and think, “Gee, his name sounds familiar.” Or…

Time now for the question of the day for you. How well do you remember those years of high school drama and comedy? How were you shaped by the experiences of those late adolescent years? What do you still celebrate? Or, regret. When I was producing “Celebration Rock,” I paired two popular songs about teenage angst, and helped listeners reflect on their feelings long beyond high school days. One was Janis Ian’s “At Seventeen.” The other, Rod Stewart’s “I Was Only Joking.” I guess we could add Stewart’s cover of Bob Dylan’s “Forever Young” to the mix. You can find your way to them on the ‘net to refresh your memory. Or, just think back. And thank God you survived it all, maybe with a smile.

{I’m exploring rooms and room and roominess and various room-inations* during Lent 2024. Today, the cross between cozy and claustrophobic.” *Thanks, again, Jim T.}

A roomette. That’s what AMTRAK calls the cubby hole in which Joan and I spent three weeks one night. And again, on the return trip. All things considered, it was better than sleeping in coach. We had privacy and beds (of a sort) for the journey from Minneapolis to Whitefish, Montana and back. But, adding suitcases and backpacks to the already compact roomette made things just a little cramped.

Here’s how the AMTRAK website describes the space:

For customers seeking both privacy and savings in First Class, Roomettes feature two comfortable seats by day transformed to upper and lower beds by night. Each room includes a big picture window, newly upgraded bedding, pillows, towels and linens and access to a restroom and shower in your car.

A dedicated First Class attendant will provide turndown service, assist with meals and help with luggage. All customers in private rooms receive complimentary lounge access at major stations, priority boarding and complimentary meals onboard.

AMTRAK

The site also mentions, if you look for it, the dimensions of the cubicle: 6 1/2 feet by 3 1/2 feet. Uh-huh.

OK, so it wasn’t that bad. During the day, snuggling up with our backpacks next to us, we faced one another across the crowded room(ette), with that large window providing a wonderful view of the passing terrain. We enjoyed not having to dodge other passengers weaving through the train’s aisles, or having to endure the aroma of the tuna fish sandwich emanating from the seat in front of us. We had our own space, and that was fine. Until we needed to go down the hall to the shared bathroom and shower. Or to change clothes for bed. In order to have enough room, one of us would have to stand outside the roomette in the aisle so the other could stretch into PJs and re-pack backpacks.

Then there was the mechanics of pulling down the upper bunk, climbing up the ladder, and fastening the protective net that kept the sleeper (Joan) from rolling out of bed if the train took a curve too fast. My six foot frame barely fit the length of the lower bed. I did wonder if the train should stop suddenly, I mean real suddenly, if my feet should be toward the front of the train…to keep my head from being jammed into my shoulders if…well, I worry too much.

The car’s attendent was really very friendly, extremely helpful and especially attentive, given our ages. I’m not sure we’d have had such a good experience those nights if it hadn’t been for his help.

When not watching the scenery roll by, we read, napped, and talked about the National Parks’ wonders we were headed to see. Again, the privacy was nice. And we learned as we walked through the train and passed by the real rooms (without the “ettes”) that thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s nicer home. Like the one Garrison Keillor was in just around the corner. He looked comfy in there, and yes, he was reading. Though we liked his roomy rail abode, we did not intrude. We knew he is an introvert (as I am) and 99% of celebrities don’t want to be bothered by well-meaning commoners. (I once said a very casual hello to Donald Sutherland in a Newport, VT eatery. He was not a happy man.) Keillor had no choice when it came to the dining car. No one gets a private table as the locomotive pulls us companions along the prairie’s home. (I’m smiling as I type that. So clever.)

Joan still grins as she recounts what Keillor said to her as we all waited to deboard the train in his familiar Minneapolis station. He said…(wait for it)…”Go ahead.” A man of few words off air. He did appear at our limited glimpses though to be a good scout: courteous, kind, cheerful. Well, not that cheerful. And probably obedient, too, but we didn’t get a chance to see that side of him.

So, where IS the line between comfy and claustrophobic? I suppose it depends on how much time one spends in the smaller spaces of life. One night on the way west. One night on the way east. On AMTRAK. Sure beat flying! That airborne experience is definitely claustrophobic all the way.

{ I’m estimating 30 entries about “room(s)” so far this season of Lent 2024. Too early for the homestretch? Perhaps. Today, another entertainment room.}

Maybe it’s not been too evident that the title of this blog is “Peace, Grace, and Jazz,” not “Rooms I Have Occupied.” Today I can add the “jazz” thing and combine it with a special room.

Once upon a time, our area was known primarily for shoe manufacturing. Endicott Johnson Shoe Company had factories in all three of what were known as the “Triple Cities” of Endicott, Johnson City, and Binghamton, NY. (Note the shoe manufacturer did not take its name from two of the “cities” mentioned; they were named after founders of the shoe company: George F. Johnson and Henry B. Endicott.) In addition to the huge factories, the benevolent founder affectionately known as Geo. F. built parks and carousels, homes, libraries, medical centers, recreation centers, a golf course, and a large theater for vaudeville, all to provide for the well-being of his workers. The theater’s name? The Goodwill.

The shoe business is gone now. Most of the factories are torn down, though some are being beautifully re-purposed for apartments. The EJ homes are still here, the golf course hosts a PGA Champions Tour event each summer, and the carousels still turn (and always for free). The hulk of a theater, once home to live music and then movies, still stands awaiting a very expensive renovation. Maybe.

Next door to the theater stands an old firehouse. Yes, I forgot to mention, Geo. F. made sure there were fire stations near the factories, just in case. While the old Goodwill sleeps, performance is alive and well in the re-purposed fire station, part of what is hoped to be the Goodwill Performing Arts Complex. With contributions from the Schorr Family, the Firehouse Stage occupies the garage where once big trucks awaited calls to action. And it is my jazz club.

Well, not mine exactly, but it’s where I go most often to hear local, regional, and sometimes national jazz talent. I have loved that music since my teen years, and still have fun introducing myself as a “Presbyterian minister and jazz DJ.” For well over 20 years, I played jazz on Richmond, Va. radio stations, and continue even in the September of my years (or is it November? Brrr.) to host a jazz show, “Classic Vinyl Jazz,” on a Binghamton, NY community FM station. Radio and CDs and LPs are great outlets for listening, but nothing beats live performances of any kind of music. So, there is this jazz spot in Johnson City.

On the outside it still has the look of a fire station. But inside, with seating around tables for four, the stage situated near the firehouse doors, a bar in the lobby area…well, it’s an intimate space for about 110 jazz lovers, as well as patrons who come for other kinds of music, comedians, drama, and small-scale musical productions such as “Into the Woods.” My experiences in jazz clubs are very limited. I’ve been to Blues Alley. The Bimhuis in Amsterdam, and the Jazz House in Copenhagen. And some Richmond restaurants that featured intimate jazz performances. That’s it. So, for me, the Firehouse Stage is THE jazz venue, and I try to make as many dates as I can. Joan goes with me frequently (bless her heart), and arriving to find a full house is almost as exciting for me as it must be for Mike Carbone who curates the artists’ appearances there.

When I first went to the venue, local jazz legend, sax player, arranger, impressario, and retired Professor of Jazz Studies at Binghamton University Al Hamme brought in a stellar lineup of performers, but also hosted monthly jazz jams where local and regional musicians of varying talents shared their tunes. Now many were former jazz pros, some having played in well known big bands, but a few were wanna-be jazz folk not quite up to it. (Please, vocalist! Be like Columbus; discover a key and land on it!) But they got their share of applause.

When the jams had played out, the monthly jazz gigs became more a showcase for professional talents from far and wide. The jams were a great place to meet local musicians and fans, and I made a lot of friends there. But the new format has brought in folks from the Central NYS jazz community and beyond, introducing us to new talents and old pros alike. Mike Carbone, himself an exciting jazz sax virtuoso, has done a terrific job of varying the styles of jazz so we in the audience grow in appreciation of what the jazz stage has to offer.

From big bands to jazz trios, I’m in my happy place listening to live music in a special club where fire sirens once sounded an alarm and where now the music can be so hot one is happy for a nearby hose on the wall. Or, a drink from the bar.

So, where do YOU go for live music? Or, what “happy place” feeds your spirit with music of any sort?

{Lent always brings the daily discipline of writing for me. Just because. And it’s personal, yet very public. My topic this year: room(s).}

As I was sorting through photos and slides for yesterday’s entry here, I ran across some pictures that reminded me of an odd “room” in our 1820s Liberty Ave. home in Endicott, NY. It wasn’t on my list of rooms when I planned this series (yeah, some of it was planned). But there it was: the un-named room in the front entry hall of the house. Realtors wouldn’t have counted it as an actual room, but with six kids in the family, we spread out through the whole 13 room (not counting this one) house.

The most unique architectural feature of this home was unsupported winding stairway. The entry hall then was two stories high, and while the upper level contained only a spinning wheel, the lower level just inside the front door (and leading to the dining room I described yesterday) served variously as 1) a TV room, 2) Dad’s “office,” and 3) a play room. Not all at once, of course, but over the years we lived there.

I have two memories related to my Dad that spring from that “room.” It was in the hallway there…I remember us standing near the front door…when Dad told me that Grandpa Kellam had died. Dad’s father had been hospitalized for some time, but still… And all I could think of to say (idiot!) was, “No kidding.” Lord, that’s probably one of maybe three things I’ve said that I’d love to go back and erase permanently.

Dad, understandably, was upset at that thoughtless remark. Sternly he replied, “No! I’m not ‘kidding.’ Why would I kid about that!?” I apologized, red-faced. I guess it was probably the first time I’d ever been told of a family death and had no script to follow. But I was a senior in high school and should have had a far more sensitive response.

The second memory is related to that one. This was the era of Dad’s desk being in that downstairs hallway, just under the stairs. He was going to call his mother to tell her the news. Now, my grandparents had been divorced since Dad’s childhood, so Dad was trying to put his sorrow into words before he made the long-distance call to Nana. He sat at his desk, and I saw that he had written his script for the call. “Mom, I have some bad news. Dad died this morning.” It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to say it; he was trying to say the sentence without losing his composure, and having a script would help. I saw what he had written and left him to the difficult call. At that point, I did have some sense… finally.

Other days in that non-room, that hall space, were more pleasant. The TV was in there during one period. It kept us kids out of the more lovely living room. I guess Mom and Dad must have watched some programs in there, but I can’t remember any chairs! We kids were used to sprawling on the floor, not only for TV, but for board games too. And homework.

A couple of years ago, I was invited to go back to that home while part of it was being renovated, and I saw the way the winding stairs were constructed. Someone should have gotten a genius award for that design. Awesome.

I guess something to consider beyond my nostalgic look back is this: what have you said in a fleeting moment that you wish you could erase? The wonderful singer/storyteller Steve Goodman wrote a song called “Videotape.” In it, he mused that if his life had been on videotape, he could rewind it and erase his regrets. I know what he was singing about. And you may too.