Good News from North Haven Read online

  Bud’s most impressive literary achievements are his regulation length (three 4-inch columns) obituaries written about those lives about which there is precious little to say, or at least precious little that Bud can say in the newspaper. With consummate skill, he weaves all the expected words together to say little, which pleases everyone. The interpersonal and political realities of small-town life counsel equal-length obituaries. Obits of varying lengths and content would be a potential source of wounded family pride that might last generations and bring ire upon the tenuous operation of a one-man newspaper. So Bud chooses his words with a studied deliberateness. It is a studied deliberateness that I, as a writer of funeral eulogies, especially appreciate.

  Last week’s Herald, which was mailed out the Friday after the New Year, included an obit for an old woman, Priscilla Atterby, and a second-page feature about the blizzard that hit on Wednesday. For Bud and most of the town, these events were two more markers in time: “the year that old Mrs. Atterby died,” or “the year we had the big storm right after New Year’s.” But for me, these two events wove themselves together in such a way that they became not just news, but news for me—oddly enough, “good news.”

  Priscilla Atterby died at eighty-four years: “fourscore if by reason of strength,” as the Psalmist has it. All of her life was lived here in North Haven. “Never saw the ocean till I was sixty-two,” she told me once, and then allowed as to how she was really rather disappointed in it when she finally did see it. “Looked just like Lake Michigan,” she said.

  “But Priscilla,” I countered, “on the other side of that ocean is France, thousands of miles away; it’s only ninety miles across the lake to Michigan.”

  She then looked at me without a hint of humor and said, “But Reverend, you can’t see either of them, so what does it matter?”

  Priscilla was a world-class worrier. She worried most about her three children, who are themselves now grandparents. Each of them moved out of town right after marriage, partly, I suspect, to distance themselves from the immediate clutches of their mother’s unrelenting concern. Two of them moved out to California. Priscilla worried about earthquakes. One moved to Chicago and Priscilla worried about crime and fire. “Fire?” I asked when she shared her anxiety with me during a pastoral call.

  “What happened once can happen again,” she answered.

  Her face was deeply lined. People who knew her longer than I said that the worrying was something that had animated her only for the last twenty years or so. When she was younger it was something a bit different that drove her. “Agitation,” somebody called it. “Priscilla always looked, well, agitated,” this friend had said. I think the image was meant to be taken literally, like the agitator of an old Maytag wringer-washer, never sitting still, never letting anything be. It was, I suspect, Priscilla’s agitated love that chased her daughters to California and her son to Chicago. It was this agitated love that slid into intrepid worry in old age.

  During the funeral it started to snow, gently at first, and then very hard. The television had said that if this storm “swooped south, we might really get walloped.” Newscasters everywhere seem bent on talking about winter weather in apocalyptic terms as if the same thing didn’t happen every winter. On the other hand, folks here, being quite accustomed to it, try to outdo each other in being blasé about blizzards.

  I, however, am possessed by an outlander’s agitation about snow. My readiness to cancel everything at the sight of the first snowflake has become something of a standing joke in town. True to form, I had told a half-dozen people how worried I was that we wouldn’t get Priscilla in the ground before the latest blizzard immobilized southwestern Minnesota.

  I was reading the New Testament lessons when I first noticed the thick, heavy flakes through the funeral home window. The storm had “swooped south,” I thought to myself. My minister’s calendar-brain began to race ahead to everything in my life that the weather was going to foul up for the next couple of days: a meeting about the church’s budget deficit, a Presbytery meeting over in Mankato where I was doing a big report, and the annual meeting of the congregation on Sunday after church. A worry lump began to congeal in my stomach. I was reading through the funeral service on automatic pilot when I realized the words from the fourteenth chapter of John’s Gospel were bouncing from my eyes, out of my mouth, and into the ears of Priscilla Atterby’s crowd of mourners: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I it unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

  Priscilla, I thought, you never knew peace in this world. Yours was a troubled heart, anxious, thumping, rising to a start at every little threat to equilibrium. But in funeral meditations, as in Bud’s obits, you don’t say everything that’s on your mind. In prayer, we remembered Priscilla, for whom “the fever of life is over” and who now knew “peace at last,” as Newman had prayed. Death, after eighty-four years, had stilled her troubled heart. Last night Minnie MacDowell had peered into the casket at Priscilla and said, predictably, “She looks so peaceful.” That old mourner’s euphemism appeared to be true in this case. Priscilla really did look to be at peace. The worry lines were relaxed from her face, her anxious eyes now peacefully closed. With a word, God was able to convince her of the simple truth that a lifetime of cajoling by her late husband and three children had never brought her to, namely, that “everything is gonna be all right, Priscilla, everything is gonna be all right, Mom.”

  We sang “Abide with Me,” got in our cars, and drove very slowly to the cemetery. We walked up a long, shallow hillside to the open grave, a warm black cave in the blinding white of the snow, and there we laid Priscilla Atterby. I went straight home afterward, somehow feeling good for her, but in a dither about how the snow might foul up the next few days of my life. It snowed all that day and night and most of the next day. Then for two more days the wind howled and screamed. The old manse we live in trembled before the power of it. When the storm was over, it was as though the town had entered another level of a many-tiered reality, a sculptured sea of frozen white waves curving over cars. Parabolas were carved around the trunk of each tree in mathematical perfection. Snow arched up to the eaves on the east side of every house. All was white, all except the sky, which was a blue intense beyond description.

  We were snowbound—literally bound by the snow for four days. Everything stopped: school, meetings, work for most everybody except the plow operators and the mailmen following in their swath. My agitation built and then crested on the second day when it became obvious that more than half of a week was going to be plucked right out of my calendar. I canceled meetings and fretted over what was not going to get done, all of it seeming so essential. Everybody agreed that we’d had a “decent little storm” and that I had not been an alarmist. Those who remembered said it called to mind the great Armistice Day blizzard of 1940. I felt somewhat vindicated.

  When I informed a fellow clergyman over the phone that I could not make the committee meeting in Mankato, I heard a set of half-forgotten words tumble out of my mouth and onto the phone. “Milt,” I said, “look at it this way, in a hundred years we’ll all be dead.” That piece of folk wisdom belonged to my late Uncle Paul, my mother’s gangly bachelor brother, who could be counted on to say it every time something didn’t go just the way he or somebody else had planned, which I recall as being fairly often.

  After that remark there was, of course, nothing else to say, so I hung up and looked out the window at this white act of God that was in all its lumbering and relentless might foiling the plans and plottings of thousands of His creatures. “Be still.” The words whispered invitingly to me. “Be still, and know that I am God.” It is often so hard to hear such whispers in this life. Priscilla Atterby had known God, but had never been still, not until two days ago when God’s love finally held her agitated soul in a quiet embrace.

  This cold, irresistible embrace held us so tenaciously that we had to drop our armful
of doings and makings and plannings and yield to stillness. It was a mandatory stillness that insisted we listen as it told us what we know but forget again and again. In tandem, the blizzard and Priscilla’s death were an Epiphany epiphany. They were a manifestation of simple truth in the midst of outward uneventfulness insisting again that all our mortal effort, all our ambitions, all our worries, all our dreams, whether noble or vain, are as little before God, not so much because we are so small, but because God is so great. The blizzard was barely a whisper, as divine utterances go, but it was enough to still me and put before me again who God is and who I am.

  – 4 –

  The Ocarina Band

  People’s notions of what details are important enough to record in our church records have changed dramatically with the years. Session records of a hundred years ago, for instance, are long on descriptions of the spiritual condition of church members, individually and collectively. I came across this in the minutes of the Stated Meeting of June 1891: “Miss Elfreda Matson was again summoned before the Session and queries were put to her in a Gentle and Christian manner regarding certain reports of Intemperance.” And this from the Session’s October 1899 meeting: “It was felt by all that the recent Communion Season was marked by renewed concern for Spiritual Matters and many felt led to Commit themselves anew to the Work of Christ.” Our Clerks of Session maintained the tradition of capitalization for emphasis long after it had passed from secular fashion. More recent minutes talk a lot about money (the lack of it) and church programs (always new). Church members are no longer singled out By Name, nor is there much reflection about Spiritual Condition.

  In the minutes of various Session meetings from 1919 to 1921 I found one of our more curious pieces of history—the story of the S.P.O.B., as the minutes usually abbreviated it, which stood for the “Second Presbyterian Ocarina Band.” An ocarina I knew to be a once popular musical instrument about the size and shape of a sweet potato and yielding an airy sound like that of a recorder. The player blows into a mouth hole at one end and controls the pitch by covering and uncovering the finger holes on the side.

  The first reference was from the minutes of the Session Meeting of February 1919:

  A number of the boys of our church have proposed the founding of a Musical Band which would be composed of young men playing the ocarina. They suggested that the Band could accompany the congregation and organ in singing at Sunday Morning Services and perhaps present concerts of a Spiritual Nature on special occasions. The band would be under the direction of Mr. Angus MacDowell, a junior student in the North Haven High School, and would include boys aged fifteen through eighteen years. It was further suggested that Church Funds be used for the purchase of Nine Ocarinas.

  The boys were dismissed with appreciation and there followed a long discussion of the Merits of such a Musical Band. Elder Anston noted that the ocarina was an instrument of Recent Invention and that there was no clear Biblical Mandate for such an innovation. The Rev. Mr. Wilson observed that the shape of the Flutes mentioned in Scripture is unknown and such Biblical instruments may well have resembled the modern ocarina as much as that instrument we call the Flute today. Elder Anston noted the Cost of the instruments and questioned the Steadiness and Determination of Boys to bring such an enterprise to fruition. But it was agreed that Certain Risks and Innovations may be necessary to insure the ongoing interest of Modern Young People in Religious Matters. The Session voted 5–1 for the Foundation of the Second Presbyterian Ocarina Band.

  From the minutes of the Session Meeting of April 1919:

  The pastor reported to the Session the many Favorable Comments offered to him by Members of the Congregation and Visitors regarding the S.P.O.B. Many in attendance observed that Volume, Life, and Interest were added to the singing in recent services of worship, most especially that of Easter Sunday. The boys’ rendition of “Jesus Christ Has Risen Today” at the opening of that service called to the Minds of Many Worshipers the Very Spirit that must have been about on that first Easter Day. The Session voted 6–0 to purchase three additional ocarinas for new band members and 12 copies of Favorite Sunday School Songs (With Helpful Notes for Instruments).

  From the minutes of the Session Meeting of January 1920:

  Young Mr. Angus MacDowell, who directs the S.P.O.B., was in attendance to request of the Session that support be given from the Church for the purpose of purchasing Appropriate Uniforms for the Band. Such uniforms would not be Military in Nature, nor would they seek to call Undue Attention to the boys, rather they would provide a Pleasing and Uniform appearance to the ensemble in the church. It was noted that the band is now larger in number than the Church Choir and has developed a Following and Popularity, especially among young ladies, in the Larger Community. The Pastor observed that many Methodists and even Episcopalians had been in attendance at the Christmas Services featuring the Band. Mr. MacDowell informed the Session that he had received Numerous Requests for the band to perform in Other Churches and Worldly Gatherings, but these the boys had declined in deference to the admonition of the Shorter Catechism that “Man’s chief end is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever.” The Session voted 6–0 to make a contribution of $150 toward the purchase of Uniforms.

  From the minutes of the Session Meeting of May 1920:

  Elder Craddock reported that the Uniform Fund had been oversubscribed and that the excess monies had been used by the boys to purchase Other Instruments in addition to the traditional ocarina. Some in the band felt this would add Depth and Rhythm to the sound of the Band. He also noted that several young Methodist men had requested that they be permitted to join the S.P.O.B., as their congregation offered no such Opportunity. Other elders inquired of Elder Craddock as to whether these young Methodists understood clearly that the band’s chief purpose was to contribute to the worship of Second Presbyterian. He said that they clearly understood this, but, he noted, many boys in the Band now looked to Expand the Horizons of the organization. The Session voted 6–2 to invite Methodist and Other Protestant young men to participate in the S.P.O.B.

  From the minutes of the Session Meeting of October 1920:

  Elder Anston reported that Reports to the effect that the S.P.O.B. had been engaged to perform at the Grand Army of the Republic’s Annual Ball were Indeed True. Since the addition of Other Instruments, the Popularity of the Band had increased even further. Many boys, Elder Anston observed, seemed to take Undue Pride in their membership in the organization and to see ocarina music as an End in Itself. The Session voted 6–0 to request that the Pastor counsel with the Boys regarding the Purpose and Mission of their organization.

  From the minutes of the Session Meeting of December 1920:

  The Rev. Mr. Wilson reported that he held a Lengthy conversation with young Mr. Angus MacDowell and other boys in the ocarina band regarding the Mission of that organization. It seems that Some Dissension has arisen in the group. Some members wish the band to continue to play primarily for Services of the Church. Others envision Greater Things, and note that the Gospel does not forbid Christians from performing Popular Music in Worldly Places. The pastor added that many parents have expressed Concern for the Welfare of their boys. The pastor expressed concern about the Ill Effects of Dissension in the Church over this matter.

  For nearly a year, there was no mention in the Session minutes of the S.P.O.B. The next and last entry on the subject was from the meeting of September 1921. (A new clerk now keeps the minutes; he no longer uses capitalization for emphasis.)

  The pastor noted with regret that he had been informed by Mr. Angus MacDowell of the recent dissolution of the ocarina band. The group had become very popular locally. Differing perspectives regarding purpose, musical interpretation, and frequency of rehearsals arose in the group. The band was often called upon to perform at sundry worldly gatherings. In such situations temptations were strong, and the boys yielded. The group became degenerate and voluntarily disbanded over the summer.

  Degenerate! Yield
ed! I let the heavy old leather-bound minute book slap down flat on the desk. I had to call Angus, who is a pillar of the church and of rectitude in general. What do eighteen-year-old boys yield to? My first thought was, of course, eighteen-year-old girls, those ocarina band groupies who had been innocently mentioned in the minutes. Or maybe the unnamed temptation was drink. Home brew or bootlegged whiskey may well have found their way into the G.A.R. Annual Ball. I couldn’t wait. I phoned Angus and asked if I could stop by with some old Session minutes that I had a question or two about.

  “Those minutes don’t tell the half of it, Dave,” Angus began. “They don’t tell the tenth of it. Such a deal it was—the ocarina band.” His memory of the events was undimmed by the years. In fact, time had sharpened his perspective.

  “Oh, we thought we were hot stuff. Dark blue uniforms with red trim on the lapels and on the ends of the sleeves. How we strutted about. Every boy in town wanted in. And then every mother in town wanted her son in. Except it was only for the Presbyterians at first.”

  Minnie came in very slowly with three cups of coffee lapping over their brims and a plate of shortbread. Angus retrieved an album with some old S.P.O.B. pictures and set it on my lap. They were formal studio photographs: three rows of boys in sepia tone, the back row standing, the middle row on chairs, and the front row on the floor. Each boy held what looked like a sweet potato, which is, in fact, the nickname for the instrument. If you didn’t know, the picture looked like twenty-four boys in identical suits holding identical vegetables. The contrasting stripe running down the sleeves and pants legs of the boys’ uniforms was just noticeable. Each young face bore a look of utter and concentrated seriousness. Angus pointed to the gangly boy holding a baton on the end of the last row. “That’s me,” he said, “the director.” He chuckled as he tapped the picture of his young self with his old man’s finger.