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Journey in Writing
Ray Waugh, Sr.
A book which will doubtless arouse some memories in your
own heart. It is a book in which the mind finds rejoicing for having thought, the emotions
find unity for running the full extent of human expression and a life is lived fully in
the confidence of a wonderful tomorrow.
To
The two most wonderful women
in my life and my sons—
MY WIFE—MY MOTHER
RAY, JR.—RANDY
Copyright, 1964, by Raymond A. Waugh, Sr.
Printed in the United States of America
First edition
PREFACE
Some may question the advisability of a preface for these
certain autobiographical excerpts from my life. While I would not preclude any the right
to do so, I do not think that such questioning completely negates the advisability in, at
least, this instance. On the contrary, it seems there is a particular need for at least a
short explanatory preface in connection with a series of autobiographical and human
interest excerpts such as those which are here presented under the title, "From
the Hills to Hell—Then to Heaven."
In the first place, autobiography of any nature would seem
to have its personal aspects into which no others can really enter. Secondly, since most
of us are in a very real sense subjective creatures, even those things about which we
attempt to be the most objective will have their impossible areas of continuing dispute.
Thirdly, time-intervals of moments, days, months, years or decades bring about the partial
erasure of some details connected with any experiences, and perhaps on the other hand the
intensification of others.
This imbalance dissimilarity and the perpetuation of the
varying and ever-changing differences of reflection are elements of the human-complex
which cannot be truly understood or even analyzed; even the analysis would be colored by
the imbalance dissimilarities and the varying differences. Hence, even the most honest
objectivity on the part of either the observers or the participants will be limited
somewhat in the ultimate issue or interpretation by the inescapable subjectivity and human
limitations on the part of both.
Perhaps, however, we would not be finally amiss in
recognizing that beneath the apparent dissonance of attitudes toward any of the
experiences to which we shall make reference, there will usually be a fundamental unity.
It is this fundamental and persisting unity which will bring forth a real, credible and
harmonious response in the hearts of the sincere participants, interested parties and
those whose experiences may have been similar.
The decision as to whether I have been wise or foolish in
this provision of a preface will, of course, have to be left to the end-determinations of
our posterity. It is, nevertheless, in the interest of the factual harmony, happiness and
hopefulness that these pages of excerpts from my life have been sent forth. Regardless of
how these details are received or rejected, my life certainly would never have been the
same without them. In fact, without these blessed experiences and the involvements with a
host of wonderful folk, the life of this one, who is not worthy of the least of God's
favor or the fellowship of any human, would doubtless have been a pointless and fruitless
invasion of mortality and perhaps a totally colorless dirge.
Therefore, with the Apostle Paul of old I must cry,
"Both to the Greeks and all other peoples, both to the wise and those not so wise, I
am (forever) indebted." And it is this indebtedness and God's continued provision
which enables me to hope that these autobiographical excerpts entitled, "From the
Hills to Hell—Then to Heaven," might enable you more wonderfully to abound in
that trilogy of temporal and eternal blessing to be found in "Faith, Hope and
Love."
Raymond A. Waugh, Sr.
San Antonio, Texas
November 3, 1964
I
A RE-LIVED MEMORY
There is one place to which my mind can ever return without
tiring. In my mind, this place can be designated, "A paradise in the hills."
Though I cannot understand fully why the course of my mortality has been such as to keep
me so far away for such long periods of time, neither the miles nor the time can dispel
from my heart the truth that my experiences in Given, West Virginia, have become in fact
some of the most pleasant memories of my life.
Since that wonderful year, 1939, it has been my joy to
travel in most every section of these great United States of America and in several
foreign countries. Too, God has enabled me to come through the exigencies connected with
participation in both World War II and the early months of the Korean conflict. But the
memory of Given, West Virginia, is still one of the most precious.
I have actually attempted to enjoy the seemingly
impenetrable Precipices and the mountainous walls of the great city of New York; bucked
the bruising waves of the cold Atlantic shores; basked on the pearly white sands of
Pensacola Beach; swam in the multicolored waters off Korea's rugged slopes; climbed the
grasscovered hills of the land of the Japanese; reveled in the sunsets out across Puget
Sound's endless inlets and islands; stood on the shifting deck of a great vessel tossing
in tumultuous Pacific seas, and later from that same deck in San Francisco's Bay marveled
at the massive wonder of the Golden Gate Bridge above me; noted the pounding surf off
Southern California's pleasant shores; and rejoiced in the perpetual beauties of
Southwestern skies. But never have I found a place to surpass in memory that spot in God's
green earth known as Given, West Virginia.
There, where Frog Holler, Wolf Creek, Spruce Holler and
Parchment Creek meet, is a little white Church to which my heart has returned innumerable
times in these years of provided memory. And at the top of the hill, above and behind that
little, white frame church, is a great, overhanging, granite boulder which time has not
yet been able to move or to destroy. Across more than a century many of my uncles,
cousins, granddads and great-granddads and *lends have climbed to the top of that great
granite landmark or clung to its precipitous sides and thereon inscribed their initials or
names.
In 1939, I followed my relatives, ancestors and many
unknown friends and added my initials to that enduring rock! Then, 23 years later, at the
time of the Harrison Reunion in 1962, at the home of my late Aunt Al Wilda, my eldest son,
Ray Jr. (15 years of age), and my youngest son, Randy (5 years of age), and I made our
ways to this rock of many memories.
There, that wondrous day in the summer of 1962, we
refreshed my initials which time had partially obliterated and then added the initials of
my two sons. This is a relived memory which I shall doubtless enjoy many times e're my
mortal frame finds its place in the dust of earth! And, God willing, each reliving of such
a memory will be an experience of joy, great joy!
Perhaps we can here note that it is such inward and
sometimes inexplicable pleasantries which can add such satisfying colors to the threads
which make up the warp and the woof of our earthly lives. Hence, I can hope, too, that my
lads will one day experience a healthy nostalgia in this world which becomes more
mechanical and crassly materialistic by the moment. Perhaps they, too, will one day return
with lads of their own and continue the simple pleasantry of inscribing, just for memory's
sake, the initials of my grandchildren on that great granite promontory on the hill behind
the little white Church in "the paradise of the hills," Given, West Virginia.
II
GRANDMA GOT THE LAST LAUGH
My Grandmother on my mother's side of the family was a
really particular person. She spent all of her married life with my grandpa on a hillside
farm in Given, West Virginia. Though she never topped five feet, sue stood real tall with
her seven boys, three girls and her many grandchildren, most of whom have exceeded five
feet and a half in height. She stood especially tall with her boys for she put most of
them through grammar school, high school, and a couple of them through college with turkey
and egg money. And to me—just one of her many grandsons—she was just downright
great!
Grandma's life was far from easy and far from pleasant as
she cooked for a large family over an old fashioned wood stove, slopped the hogs, fed the
fowls, milked the cows, churned the butter, and did a dozen other things most modern
housewives know nothing about such as smoking the meat, making the sausage, keeping a
large garden, and washing over an old tub with nothing but a scrub-board to remove the
dirt. But in spite of the many real difficulties of Grandma's life there on that hillside,
I never saw her when she was not able to give forth with a real chuckle or a hearty,
healthy, country laugh.
This story, however, is about the time Grandma laughed for
more than an hour the first night and then many, many times after that.
Years ago when I was yet a young man, I spent some three
months with Grandma and Grandpa. By then her boys and girls had departed to make homes of
their own, and I got to know Grandma as I had never known her before. I learned that I did
not have to tell her what I had been doing for she could "read me like a book,"
especially when I had been into some mischief. When I learned that she was aware of my
many unorthodox activities, I became conscious of the fact that I was causing her and
Grandpa a great deal of concern. Her children had grown up around the farm and the animals
and had learned of the many dangers, as well as how to take care of themselves. But I was
a city boy from Columbus, Ohio. Thus, my activities in the country were often head-long
and involved in dangers of which I was not even aware.
At that time, however, I did not attempt to analyze
Grandma's concern. As I look back, I realize that her concern may have been the result of
her knowledge of my ignorance of country life or it may have been simply because of the
wildness of many of my experiences. Though I had not been too ready with explanations of
my activities, Grandma had learned that I was a pretty wild one.
She learned that I had rolled off a sled and down a steep,
snowy hill with a lamb in my arms; she learned that I had been thrown from a sprightly
colt in the middle of a creek; she learned that I had ended up on the singletree or tongue
between two galloping horses when the sled on which I was standing failed to come up out
of Parchment Creek there at the Given Crossing, when the horses, tongue and I continued
recklessly on.
But thinking myself to be just a bit smarter than my
countrified Grandma, and having an abundance of youthful exuberance which was not to be
outdone by the sage wisdom of the aged, I decided there must be some way of putting
something over on her. Having heard most of my life how strangers passing through the West
Virginia countryside would sleep in barns, I had a real yen for this experience. So, one
night when the frost was heavy on the ground and not a breeze was in the air to disturb
the crystal-stillness of the coldness of the night, I made my decision.
Since I had already questioned Grandma about sleeping in
the barn, I was certain she would not agree willingly to my doing so. Consequently, I told
her I was going down to my Aunt Al Wilda's, who lived about a half mile down the creek
from my Grandma's, to spend the night. After I had been at Aunt Al Wilda's an hour or so,
I told her I was going back to Grandma's. But the moment I stepped off Aunt Al Wilda's
porch, I knew the barn would be my next stop.
So intent was I on sleeping in the barn that my lying to
them seemed perfectly justified at the moment. In fact, the Scriptural admonition,
"Be sure your sins will find you out," would have been a most unwelcome
intrusion if I had even had the presence of mind to recall it. My only objective at the
moment was to get the last laugh on Grandma by sleeping in the barn.
When I arrived at the old clapboard barn, I walked with a
very delicate and cautious ease for I did not want waking chickens, turkeys, cows and
horses to divulge my whereabouts or my intentions. The moonlight shining through the
cracks provided me sufficient light to make my way to the ladder which led to the haymow.
After gathering a few gunny sacks and carefully climbing the ladder, I reached the hay.
When I found a particularly heavy stack of hay at one end of the haymow, I dug a hole in
the hay, lay the sacks in it, wrapped by mackinaw closely, and wriggled in.
But that hay was just as cold as the night air. With an
almost human effort, the hay seemed to resist the encroachment of my legs by pushing up my
pants and stinging my legs with its coldness. Thus, it was with some difficulty that I
convinced myself I would be warmer later. I finally did, however, and then dozed off for a
fitful slumber. Some hours later—it seemed like an eternity—I awakened with the
feeling that I was for all practical purposes frozen stiff.
It was with some difficulty that I descended the ladder and
went over to the stall of one of the horses to procure a horseblanket which I had noted
some days before. Getting the blanket, I returned to my bed, lined the hole with the horse
blanket and crawled in again. Again I convinced myself everything would be all right,
since the horse blanket should make a difference. Soon, I was slumbering again.
How long I slept this second time, I had no way of knowing.
But when I awakened, I was colder than before and literally shaking and shivering from the
top of my head to the end of my toes. I knew I had had it! Sleeping in the barn might be
all right for passing strangers, but forever after that I would be willing to settle for a
bed.
I still, however, had the problem of getting to bed.
Between me in my frozen condition and a bed there were approximately 150 yards of rugged
ravine terrain which separated the barn and the house. But I had to make a choice or
determine to forsake the mortal clay that night; it was that cold! Thus, I began my
journey toward the house through air which almost cracked and over ground which literally
glistened it was frozen so very hard.
When I arrived at the house, I sneaked in the back way and
tried to climb the stairs to Grandma's cold, unheated upstairs quietly; hoping to do so
without awaking Grandma. As I pulled back the cover and prepared for the wondrous comfort
of two or three quilts and an inviting feather mattress into which I could sink very
deeply, I thought I had been successful in getting to bed without awaking anyone. But just
at that moment, Grandma's gentle voice broke the stillness, as she called out, "Is
that you, Raymond?" It was almost as though she had been expecting me, and lying
awake waiting for me. Her psychic insight into my activities literally unnerved me.
So, when Grandma inquired into my activities of the night,
I told all! By the time I had finished Grandma was laughing so hard and so long that her
bed was literally shaking. And she continued to laugh, I know, for more than an hour for
it took me that long to get thawed out to where I could even go to sleep. Eventually, I
fell asleep; and such sweet, pleasant, comfortable, appreciative sleep I had never known
before.
I awakened somewhere around noon the following day, and
Grandma told me the temperature had unexpectedly dropped to zero during the night and that
I had come in the house around 4:00 a.m. Then she began laughing again.
Even to this day, I can still hear Grandma Harrison tell
about my night in the barn and conclude with her jolly laughter. I had planned to pull a
fast-one on Grandma and get the last laugh, but it was Grandma who got the last laugh!
And until Grandma departed this life for the better land,
each time my night in the barn was mentioned or told Grandma would begin laughing all over
again. I am wondering if perhaps she does not, even yet, rejoicingly laugh as she recalls
the night when she got the last laugh on the grandson who loved her so very much?
III
CUSSIN' AND A COW
Most people who are reared in the country and are familiar
with farm animals have no real idea what the animals look like to city lads. Thus, country
folk are most likely to laugh when they see a city lad head for the highest railing when
he hears a bristly old boar snort and watches him stir up the earth with his ringed-snout.
Likewise few country people can really appreciate the temerity with which most city lads
approach their first horned-cow.
Though I had seen cows and did not particularly fear them
as animals, the art of milking was something which had escaped me; at least it was an
ability which I had never acquired. However, while spending a few days at my Aunt Al
Wilda's at Given, I was particularly taken with the desire to milk what seemed to be an
extremely gentle, old black cow!
Consequently, one evening, at about the time Aunt Al Wilda
or her grandson Bernard usually milked, I grabbed the milk bucket and took off up the hill
to the unpainted old barn which was about half way up the hill behind the old General
Store.
When I reached the barn, I noted that the old black cow had
taken her place in her stall to munch on some hay and to wait expectantly for someone to
relieve her of her load of milk. Her apparently gentle nature and quiet demeanor led me to
believe most of my troubles regarding milking were behind me. So I boldly searched out a
three-legged stool and with what may have appeared to be real confidence set it down at
what I thought would be just about the proper distance, set the bucket beneath the
"milk spigots" and positioned myself for business.
First of all, I discovered I had to readjust the stool
closer, and it took two major moves for me to get the stool properly positioned. Secondly,
by this time, my boldness had left me, and it was with a quivering right hand—I just
was not about to try to use two hands—that I tremulously took hold of the first teat.
I followed through and began squeezing and pulling. The resultant stream of milk was quite
inadequate, disappointing, and certainly nothing like those which I had seen some others
obtain.
The gentle old black cow seemed to sense my fears and
uncertainty. So, she not only did not give forth with the milk I expected, but she also
started slapping me across the face with her black bushy tail. This combination of events
brought forth some unexpected cussin'! But no one was around except me and that old cow,
so I let the unbelievable words roll!
It is not easy to put into words the battle which took
place that evening, and of course, it certainly is not possible to print the language
which that old black cow's resistance brought forth.
In any event, that old black cow was seemingly determined
that a city-slicker had met his milking waterlog. And I was just as equally determined
that the cow had met her's. Therefore, while she swished her tail and occasionally threw
her head back and slobbered on me and doubtless in the bucket as well. I continued to
squeeze and pull. When I had gotten some three or four inches of milk in the pail, this
old black cow began a rhythmic kicking up of her hind legs. I was still determined that I
would succeed in my venture, but by then my confidence had somewhat flown, and I was
teetering on two legs of that three-legged stool as I squeezed and pulled and cussed.
That old black cow, however, seemed just as determined that
I had met my milking waterlog! And with one fell-sweep she brought her right leg up under
her with such great force that I fell backwards off my stool and the milk pail ended
upside down somewhere on my stomach. I was a milking, milky mess, and that old cow still
had a couple of pails or more left that I had not even been able to get through those most
difficult "spigots."
Very simply, the old black cow had won the battle.
My milking days were over! I had never tried it before and I have never tried it again.
Perhaps the next time I try milking some gentle old black
cow—if I should ever foolishly do so—I shall either maturely request the
presence, advice and assistance of some expert or I shall get me one of those mechanical
affairs that I can attach to the teats and then move away while the milk pours into the
container.
IV
RENEWED RESPECT FOR A MARE
As a lad on the outskirts of the city of Columbus, Ohio, my
experiences with horses were extremely limited. We might almost say that except for one
particular experience, they were practically non-existent.
There was this one experience, however, which I shall never
forget. One of our neighbors had a western pony which had been thoroughly broken to where
it was ridden by most everyone acquainted with them without fear. It was nevertheless a
fast horse and occasionally raced at the County Fairs. Since I had never had the pleasure
of riding anyone's horse, I was particularly delighted when one of the boys asked me to
climb on behind him, behind the saddle. I did so and held on to the saddle rings.
The trip began at a gentle, normal gait, but it was not
long until the horse had been encouraged to gallop. Of course I began bouncing; the faster
the horse ran, the higher I bounced. Being a fairly bull-headed youngster, I was not going
to have anyone calling me "sissy" or "chicken." Therefore, I hung on
for dear life and continued to bounce.
This continued until that pony negotiated a rather high
ditch. Somehow or other, just at that moment I lost my grip on those rings, flattened out
in the air and hit the side of the ditch face-first. That was both a humiliating and an
excruciating experience; my face was a muddy, bloody mess!
A few years later, when I was visiting my Granddad, there
in Given, I mustered-up sufficient courage to try riding again. I went out to my
Granddad's barn and saddled his youngest, most sprightly horse. I had never seen anything
out of the way from the horse, and I knew that all of Granddad's boys, as well as some of
the neighbor boys, had ridden him.
Though I had never done so before, I had no real trouble
saddling the horse. I had no particular trouble getting the bridle properly installed on
that horse's head. Neither did I have any trouble mounting or starting my ride down the
road toward the General Store at Given. The horse responded to my "clucks" and
gentle pulls on the reins almost as though I had already mastered the art of riding.
However, when I approached the place that Wolf Creek
emptied into Parchment Creek, I could see that the water was running just a little higher
than usual. The horse evidently noted this too, for I experienced just a bit of trouble in
getting him to start across. Eventually, though, my "soothing voice" and gentle
nudges in the ribs accomplished the purpose.
As we approached the middle of the stream, I could see that
the horse was getting real skittish; for what reason, I did not know and have never
learned. In any event, that horse must have seen a snake, stepped on something sharp or I
unconsciously—in my momentary uncertainty—yanked on the reins, for he jumped
straight up and turned around all at the same time. I was left sitting high and dry one
moment, but the following moment I was without a horse in the middle of a somewhat flooded
stream. And after the shock of it all, I was "picking myself up" out of that
creek soaked to the skin and most unhappy with the whole situation.
Though I know it is supposed to happen only in the movies
and though it may try your credulity a bit, I want you to know, that horse was waiting for
his strange rider just out of the water on the road back to the barn. Very cautiously,
then, I climbed aboard and rode back to the barn.
A few weeks later some special religious meetings were
being held at the old Fairview Church which was a few miles from my Granddad's on the way
toward Fairplain. Though I was still a bit fearful of trying to ride the horse at night, I
did get-up enough courage to try Granddad's old, black, gentle, swayback mare! Her back
was so wide and so like a rocking chair that I felt I would be perfectly safe with only a
sheepskin on her back. Though I put a bridle on her, I left the halter rope also so she
would be able to munch grass while I was in church. We, the old black mare and I, had an
uneventful trip to the church. And to this day, I do not recall one single thing that was
said or done at that church that night, primarily, I suppose, because my interests were
feminine rather than Godly or spiritual.
After I left the church that night, however, I was really
amazed by the intense darkness which surrounded me. (In the city, of course, we never
really get a totally dark night because of the many lights which reflect on the clouds.)
In a real sense, then the darkness of that West Virginia night shocked me. It was
intensely dark; there was no moon, and the stars were hidden from view by dark, lowering
clouds. It was so dark that I could not even see the road from where I was sitting on the
horse's back. Thus, I decided reluctantly to depend on the old black mare's good sense of
direction to get me back to Granddad's. I let the bridle drop on her neck and simply held
on to the halter rope to steady myself.
At first the old black mare simply walked; much too slowly,
I thought. So, I nudged her with my heels, as I had seen some do in the movies, and she
moved a little faster. Before too long I repeated my nudging. After a time—because of
my desire to get back to Granddad's, I suppose—I nudged her again, and then again. By
this time the old black mare was really moving and I was really rocking.
Then the thought came to my mind, "Suppose she is not
galloping? Suppose she is just jumping up and down, getting ready to throw me ? The
memories of my other equestrian experiences came before my mind's eye; the more I thought
about the situation the more frightened I became. In those extremely tense
minutes—totally unreasonable though it may seem —I decided, while sitting in
that rapidly rocking horse, that I was not going to be thrown again. I made up my mind
that I was going to stay at least one jump ahead of at least one "dumb animal"
and get off before I was thrown off. So, I took a good, firm grip on the halter
rope—totally unthinking as to what would happen to me if that horse should be
galloping— jumped and "hollered," "Whoa," all at the same time!
I feel certain that no other mortal will ever be able to
really appreciate the surprise I got! When I hit the dirt on all fours, I discovered that
old, black gentle swayback mare had responded faithfully to my nudging and was going at a
full gallop. But at my command, "Whoa," she had stopped "dead in her
tracks", not one foot was I dragged! Beside my not even getting a scratch out of the
experience, I have never been able to understand her stopping apart from the possibility
that she was the more sensible of the two of us that night.
Though I was thoroughly shaken up and certainly chagrined
beyond expression, I learned something that night. I learned, as I had never know the
truth. before, that animals are not always dumb, and certainly that they are not always
"the dumb ones"! I climbed back on that old, black, gentle, swayback mare and
never again doubted her ability to get me to granddad's or anywhere else.
From that day forward, that old, black, swayback mare and I
were the best of friends.
Though I now live in the state of Texas where riding is
second nature to many, I want all of you to know that my real respect and appreciation for
"dumb animals" began on that pitch-dark night on that dusty road from Fairview
Church to Given where I learned particular respect for a particular black mare.
V
COUNTRY WISDOM FOR ETERNITY
The name, the Reverend George Loar, will doubtless bring
many gracious memories to many hearts and minds of many folk in the hills of West Virginia
and Maryland.
Brother George Loar had been reared in the mining country
up around Fairmont, West Virginia. His life had, at one time, been buried, so to speak, in
the coal business; that is, he knew from actual experience how dark the earth was on the
inside. But somehow in the wonder of the Will of God which is beyond that of mortal man,
the love of God reached into the blackness of the coal pits and a young man was made a
living witness of the Light of Life, even Jesus.
Before Brother Loar had actually made up his mind to accept
the call to preach, however, he had progressed quite well in the coal business. He had
become one of the white-collar workers and could have remained in his position to much
financial profit. The tug of the Eternal at his heart, however, was strong and he chose
the material insecurity of the ministry, though the mines in those days were providing him
with an exceptional income and a high degree of financial security.
Then, within the wonder of God's Will, Brother Loar was
holding a revival meeting at the little White Church in Given, West Virginia, in 1939.
While he was there, I was in the process of completing my extended 3-month vacation among
many of my kinfolk in that area.
Since I had been and was still such a sinner and unworthy
character, the very presence of Brother Loar and his good wife at my Granddad and Grandma
Harrison's was a real difficulty for me. Brother and Sister Loar had such a gracious,
quiet manner that my brusk ways seemed to stick out like "sore thumbs" even in
my own self-centered eyes. And rather than be eternally reminded of my sinfulness, I left
Granddad's and went over to stay a few days with my uncle Dallas and aunt Gay at
Fairplain.
But I could not get away from the impressions that had been
made. During the day, as I helped my uncle Dallas around the farm, I was much my old self.
But, when darkness came and I was alone in my room with no one to talk to and no one to
talk to me, the life which I had been living would be impressed upon me as a most
inadequate and unsatisfactory one. I really did not know God, except perhaps as that
universal, impersonal power who seemingly kept things rolling along.
At this time I never dreamed that Brother Loar's life would
ever mean anything to me or that the ministry of a "country preacher" could ever
touch the mind and heart of a city boy who had already seen too much of life. In fact, I
suppose if anyone would even have suggested such I doubtless would really have laughed.
The most distant thing from my mind was the possibility of an effectual impress by the
wisdom of a "country preacher."
There was, however, a certain little lady up one of those
West Virginia hollers whom I had seen a few times. Since she was already engaged to be
marmired, I did not anticipate that I would be privileged to date her but I did want to
converse with her. Though I would not have gone to Church in order to hear the
"country preacher," I knew that Church would be the only place where I would be
able to talk to this certain young lady. Therefore, after the meeting had been going a few
days, and I was quite certain that the young lady would be attending. I made my way across
the five miles of hills from Fairplain to Given. Each night after the meetings I would
either stay with my aunt Al Wilda or trudge back across the hills to Fairplain. I still
was not about to sleep in the same house as that preacher.
One night while I was sitting quietly there in that little
White Church at Given, the preacher's wife unexpectedly walked up beside me and said,
"Raymond, wouldn't you like to be saved?" That was a real shock to me! My mind
was not really in the meeting. My purpose in being in Church was to enable me to
fellowship—even if only momentarily—with that certain lovely lady. As you may
imagine, the question caused many eyes to be focused in my direction. Hence, as a means of
getting out of an attention-getting situation which I was not enjoying, I blurted out,
"Yes, but there is not much use to wish for I am on my way to Hell!" This reply
was of course a real shock to the preacher's wife and ended the conversation, at least
momentarily.
Though I continued to attend the meetings for the above
indicated reason, my spiritual tastes did not seem to improve. Rather, my heart seemed
more and more unresponsive. And, in what few reflective moments I had, I personally became
more and more convinced that there was more truth than fiction in my statement and that my
doom was sealed forever.
Then, one Sunday morning, during the meeting, Brother Loar
was standing on the porch of the old Given Church when I walked up. Brother Loar very
casually stepped aside and for the first time, himself, inquired, "Do you really want
to be saved, Raymond?" I evaded the question by answering, in part, I don't believe
that even God would forgive me!" I turned sharply to go in the Church, and Brother
Loar, in parting and with wisdom which must have been from heaven, said, "Would your
mother forgive you?" I was stopped in my tracks—and with a quickened conscience
replied, "She already has a thousand times!"
From that moment Hell did not seem so finally certain as it
had for some years. I had been faced with the possibility that the God of the universe was
Person equally as wonderful as my mother. Brother George Loar, the "country
preacher" had broken through my shell of sham and self-importance; both conviction
and hope bloomed anew in my sinful, guilty heart. Even then, however, I was not about to
let anyone know my feelings.
A few evenings later, after I had gone to bed on the
old straw tick in my aunt Al Wilda's west bedroom, I began to think on these things. In
addition to the things which I had heard the preacher discuss, I remembered also some of
the Bible verses I had learned as a child in the old
Riverside Methodist Church (next reference to this church) on Zollinger Road, in what is now Arlington, Ohio.
There in the quietness of that bedroom, I faced the
realities of time and eternity, my sinfulness and God's righteousness, my great need and
God's Provision. And without any commotion, without any verbal outbursts without even
getting out of bed to get on my knees, I came to understand that God had a Son —a
real live Son—who had died for me and that this same Son was now resurrected and in
heaven. When I grasped the import of these truths, I simply believed them. In so doing, I
trusted Jesus Christ as the One who was able to save me. In that crucial, never
to-be-forgotten, eternal moment a sweet peace such as I had never before known was mine.
Comforted as I had never been and the recipient of peace which I had never known, I went
to sleep without even the slightest fearfulness as to what my destiny would be even if I
should never awaken again to mortal experiences.
I awoke the next morning realizing that my night had not
been filled with phantasies or delusions. I awoke realizing that I faced a new day as a
young man such as I had never been before; sorry for every heartache I had ever caused my
mother; grieved because of every unkindness I had shown my fellowmen; and hurting away
down deep inside each time an unkind word would enter my mind. Impossible though it seemed
even then to my natural mind, I had become a new creation in Christ Jesus; I had been
reborn; I had been born from above.
Even with all of this consciousness of my past and present
sinfulness there was a freedom of spirit such as I had never known. The sun came up with a
new glory! The songs of the birds had a lilting cheer in them which I had never noted
before! The clouds overhead had never been so beautiful! The stars the following evening
were brighter than I had ever seen them! The cries of the whippoorwill's did not seem
lonesome anymore! I had never had a consciousness, appreciation, and love for others such
as was mine.
Today—some 25 years, two wars, a college, a couple of
Bible Schools, a couple of universities, a seminary, several employers and a world of
experiences in this land and in others—my salvation and consciousness of God's
reality and presence is just as real. Even today, I still know that the "country
preacher," the Reverend George Loar, had a wisdom which was good for eternity, as
well as time.
The God of whom I had learned as a child, of whom I had
read occasionally in the Bible, of whom my mother had told me and of whom Brother Loar had
told me has, in truth, saved me, forgiven me and kept me. Too, this God to whom Brother
Loar had introduced me has also enabled me to enter His Service.
Thus, the truth which Brother George Loar brought to my
attention there on the porch of tile little White Church in Given, West Virginia, has been
carried East and West, North and South throughout this land and to others. Because Brother
Loar had time to give a city boy some country wisdom for eternity, the message of Jesus as
Savior and Lord is reaching into the homes and lives of hundreds each and every day by
means of radio, correspondence and regular religious publications through me—one of
the most unworthy creatures in all of God's universe.
VI
A SMILE OF WISDOM
As a young Christian there in Given, West Virginia, the
last thing in the world I wanted to do was give the impression that I had not really been
changed. I had known a few hypocrite in my life and the furthest thing from my mind was a
desire to Join their motely, godless crowd. Besides my own personal rejoicing in my
new-found faith in Christ Jesus, I wanted people to be able to see that I was in truth not
the same old sinner. And I believe that some of the change was obvious.
But not many days had passed until I was to learn that I
was just a saved sinner. Those who remember me and my traveling among the hills will
recall that most of my walking was done in an old pair of gum boots. Thus, the day that I
decided to help Granddad and followed him barefooted was an unusual day.
As I recall, we had pulled down some hay for the horses and
cows in the barn, thrown some hay over into over into the milking lot, cast a few ears of
corn into the pig pen and listened to the jubilant snorting, and fed and watered the
chickens. The last thing to be done was care for the turkeys in the clapboard turkey house
in the little valley between the barn and the house and just down below the house.
Granddad was just a little ahead of me, moving at his usual rapid pace and humming some
little tune. I was following him somewhat carelessly swinging both my arms and kicking my
feet in the soft dirt.
Then it happened!
For one split second, one fraction of a moment I looked off
toward the house on the hill as I rounded the corner of the turkey house! As I did so, the
big toe on my right foot came into bruising contact with an immovable, supporting square
of sandstone which had seen many winters come and go with no appreciable deterioration!
The nail was torn back, the blood squirted and an oath
issued audibly from my lips! And perhaps for the first time in my life consciousness of my
sinfulness toward God was so real that I bit my lip.
My mind was stricken with a pang of brutal conscience and
my heart was broken; the new Christian was still a sinner! Though I had not yet learned
that all Christians are just saved sinners, Granddad's reaction was one of wise assurance.
He calmly turned looked at me and comfortingly smiled. Not one word of criticism passed
his lips.
At that moment I learned how much wisdom can be packed into
one fleeting smile, even on a weather-beaten face of one's Granddad. Granddad simply
smiled; a smile of knowing wisdom, yet a smile of assurance which calmly informed me that
my shortcomings were common to men.
In the many years which have intervened and in my many
other crucial moments of human failure, Granddad's smile has persisted as one with an
endless message of wisdom. And, though Granddad has been gone for many years, the memory
of his smile is ever-present to remind me that there is no need for an outlook of hopeless
futility just because I am "only a sinner saved by grace." On the contrary,
because of Granddads smile of wisdom, I can rejoice anew each day that I am "a sinner
saved by God's grace" for I can thereby know that I am on my way to that land of the
blessed where Granddad is.
VII
FROM THE HILLS TO HELL
The title given this chapter is not an attempt at
sensationalism. Neither is it a bizarre play on words. It is in truth a statement of fact,
as shall be seen very shortly.
While yet rejoicing in the wonder of my newfound faith and
life there at Given, West Virginia, I remembered a special New Testament which I had
obtained many years before. So I wrote my mother, Mrs. Hattie Harrison Waugh, in Columbus,
Ohio, to send it to me.
This was not just any New Testament, though its contents,
of course, were the same as those of any New Testament. In the first place, it was my only
New Testament and in the second place it was most special because of the manner in which I
had obtained it several years prior to my experiences in West Virginia. While I was yet a
lad of some 12 years and attending the Riverside
Methodist Episcopal Church (then, The Marble Cliff M.E. Church), a tall, saintly,
white-haired old gentleman from Akron, Ohio, came for a speaking engagement. While there
he made the arrangements with the minister, the late Rev. E. Stacy Matheny (author of American
Patriotic Devotions, Chaplain of World War I, and for many years the Chaplain of
the Ohio State Senate), to give a New Testament to each boy and girl who would learn the
Ten Commandments.
Since I had never had anything quite so beautiful as the Pilgrim
New Testament, I immediately set to work to memorize the Ten Commandments. When
the crucial, examination Sunday rolled around, I was one of the first on the front bench
and, though terribly frightened, arose and repeated the Ten Commandments before the whole
congregation. It was not too many weeks, however, until the newness had worn off and I had
put my beautiful New Testament aside.
Eleven years later—after I had believed the Gospel and
taken Jesus as my Savior there at Given, West Virginia—I became concerned to know
what was inside that Pilgrim New Testament. So immediately upon receiving
it in the mail there at Given, I began to read. I read it and then read it again! Like a
thirsty man on the desert trying to swallow more water, my heart cried out for more and
more of the Word of God, the Biblical Water of Life. Though my spiritual insight and
intellectual abilities were sometimes at such odds that my mind could not take hold of all
the wonder in the Word of God, I continued to drink as deeply and as frequently as it was
mortally possible.
In just a few weeks I departed from the beautiful hills of
West Virginia, but I did not lose my love for the Savior or His Holy Word. In just a few
months that Pilgrim New Testament was literally worn out or worn too much to be of any
use. It was then that my precious Mother and Sister made me a gift of another Bible
containing the same Holy Word of God. but this time my reading was considerably enlarged
because of the inclusion of the Old Testament. And during the years which have followed I
have had many occasions to test the Word of God in very-real life situations.
In fact, it can now be said that, in very practical moments
of reality, I have read God's Word while swinging in my bunk deep in the rancid atmosphere
of the hold of a ship as it tossed; a seemingly helpless cork before nature's
uncontrollable wrath. Too, I have pondered the Scriptures while clinging to the icy prow
of a ship which was cutting through tumultuous Arctic seas.
I have also read God's Holy truths while standing on the
star-flooded deck of a great vessel which was riding effortlessly on the ceaseless but
imperceptible swells of a seemingly bottomless, tropical sea. I have read the pages of
God's Word as a golden ball of glory appeared to drift out of sight at the farthest
extremity of a glassy, azure sea broken only by the silvery wings of flying fish and the
knife-like dorsals of cruising sharks. Too, I have contemplated the absolute truthfulness
of and abounded in the confidence to be found in God's blessed truths as my plane sped
effortlessly on jetted wings through and above the verdant earth's brilliantly-lighted
cloud canopy.
Thankfully, the Savior whom I met there in the hills of
West Virginia has provided that I might read those pages of Holy Writ in the midst of
hills enshrouded by the smoke of battle and pock-marked with the ravages of human devices.
In the hell of the enemy's closeness, I have suffered the literal palsy of fright, but the
Word of God was immediately effectual in affecting a renewed composure, as well as new
confidence and peace.
Beyond understanding though it may be, God has seen to it
that I should look into the faces of my buddies whose bodies had been decimated and whose
eyes had been glazed by the inerasable horror of the hell of humanity's inhumanity to man.
Yet, even in those moments, by His Holy Word, I was able to know with inviolable certainty
that the promises of God bore a comforting reality untouched by the holocaust of war!
Somehow, within the Holy Will of God, I have been enabled to face the specter of violent
death in the midst of a hell of human design with undying, victorious faith in the Son of
God and a never-ceasing confidence in His Holy Word.
Through faith in the Savior and because of the confidence
in the Word of God which I gained there in the hills of West Virginia, and subsequently, I
have actually been able to shout for joy in the very midst of the earthly hell of human
destruction and in the literal prospect that mortal experiences might well be concluded
for me before the rising of another sun. Truly, in the midst of an almost insufferable
hell brought upon men by human destruction, this Word of God which I had learned to love
became "a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path."
Yes, I went "From the Hills to Hell." But because
of the faith which God had given me there in the hills of West Virginia I was able to bear
all of the trials with joy and continued thanksgiving.
VIII
A COUNTRY TOMBSTONE
Many, many years ago, William O'Connor
Waugh, the son of my Granddad, Samuel Gilbert Arthur Waugh, from over on the Brotherton
Creek began to love a young, beautiful, Christian lady from Given, West Virginia. This
young lady's name was Miss Hattie Alice Harrison. Hattie Alice Harrison discovered that
she, too, loved William O'Connor Waugh. After a time they were united in marriage and went
to live near the Marble Cliff Quarries, just outside of Columbus, Ohio.
Father on a Harley with his father, William O'Connor in Ohio
Then on September 20, 1915, there was born to this union a
little one whom a neighbor girl by the name of Edna Correll named "Raymond
Arthur."
In less than two years, however, the daddy of little
Raymond Waugh lay dead in his casket. William O'Connor Waugh had become the head
electrician at the Quarry. One day as he came down from a pole —evidently shocked or
dazed, so the engineer of the switch engine later suggested—William O'Connor Waugh
failed to step out of the way of the engine and wave to the engineer, as was his custom.
Thus, his body was removed and returned to a hill over near the Brotherton Creek, west of
Given, for burial. My uncle Russell of Given helped to transfer the body from the boxcar
in Ripley, West Virginia, to its final resting place via horse-drawn wagon on a rainy,
dreary day in 1917.
Many times, as a young lad, I would grieve that I could not
remember and had not known my daddy even though there is a picture or two which show him
holding me. Often I found it hard to believe—in my childish mind—that God could
really love me as much as He did the neighborhood boys and girls who still had their
daddies.
My concern, of course, was totally selfish! It never dawned
upon me to wonder or even care particularly in those days whether my daddy had gone to
Heaven or to Hell. Consequently, I had never discussed his youth, religion or character
with anyone. I just grieved because God had so mistreated me. However, after I had come to
a saving knowledge of Jesus Christ there at Given, West Virginia—though I was Just as
human as ever—much of my selfishness was gone. One of the first things I wanted to do
was visit my daddy s grave. Too, I had a great desire to know whether my daddy had gone to
Heaven or to Hell.
Therefore, one drippy, dark morning in 1939, I pulled on my
gum boots there on the old back porch of my Granddad Harrison's and started on my way to
find my daddy's grave I crossed the road down from where Granddad's barn used to be, went
up the holler behind my great uncle Grat Parson's house, passed by my great uncle Oke
Parson's, and then went by the old home place at the head of the holler where my great
uncle, Levi Parsons, had reared such a fine family. From there I "topped" the
hill, left the holler and went on across the hills. After several hours of searching and
tramping, the directions I had received paid off. While a bright late winter sun began to
peak through the clouds, I located the old, grown-up, weedy Brotherton Cemetery which I
had never seen before.
I found my daddy's grave! And even as I write about it here
in the office some 25 years later, my tears flow unashamedly. It was a solemn moment! One
of the most solemn moments in all of my mortal life was spent there in the Brotherton
Cemetery.
Oh, I knew that my daddy was not there beneath the sod. I
knew that the skin worms and time had utterly destroyed every particle of his fleshy form
in the years which had intervened. I knew that the years had taken their toll between that
rainy day that my Uncle Russell and others had carried my daddy to the top of that forlorn
hill and that moment when I arrived. I knew that that little grave marker which bore the
name, "William O'Connor Waugh," was not the final assurance that my daddy was
yet bound by the earthly elements. But my heart was overcome with unabating grief that I
did not know whether my daddy was in Heaven or in Hell! All of the tears that I should
have shed across the years, in loving God and loving the daddy whom God had given me and
then taken away, came rushing forth as I kneeled in front of that Country Tombstone.
How long I was there, how many tears were shed, and how
much grief mingled with thanksgiving was mine, only God in Heaven knows. After a time, the
answer came—my heart found peace. God enabled me to know that my daddy had been in
heaven all of those years! God, thereby, enabled me to know that I would one day see my
daddy in Heaven for now I, too, was on my way there!
In the days and weeks which followed, I made periodic
inquiries from those who had known my daddy in bygone years around Lone Oak, Given,
Parchment, Fairview, Fairplain and Ripley. I learned that my daddy had been a lad wtih a
good mind, and that as a youngster he had been even more mischievous than most. But I
learned also that he had taken time in his busy life as a laborer and then as a teacher to
make a real profession of faith in Christ Jesus in the old Lone Oak Church. Too, I learned
that he had followed his Savior in the beauteous, symbolic waters of baptism in a West
Virginia creek.
When I returned to Columbus, I had a real interest in the
personal effects which my daddy had left and which my gracious, wonderful, Christian
mother had kept for me all of those years. Though I had learned that my daddy was far from
being the saint that most of us would like to be, I found that in quiet moments he had
learned to love, read and intelligently mark God's Holy Word, the Bible.
Thus, some 22 years after my daddy had been laid beneath
the sod of that lonesome West Virginia hills, some of the things he had done both in the
hills of West Virginia and in Ohio—caused the heart of his son who could never
remember having seen him to rejoice.
Perhaps we daddies of today should be zealous to see that
we leave behind us testimonies and works which will effectually follow us. Our youngsters
will not be able to get much of an impression from an epitaph chiseled on the granite or
marble in some city or country grave yard. But ours can truly be an eternal memory for the
good if we will but leave living testimonies; evidences of our love for God, His people
and His Holy Word!
IX
A CITY BOY GETS SMART
I realize that most country folk will doubtless think the
title of this chapter to be somewhat presumptuous. In fact, I imagine that many country
folks are of the opinion that it is not really possible for a city boy to get smart.
Though vocational agriculture classes are made available to
many city lads who have dreams of one day being farmers or ranchers, many country folk
just never believe that city-bred lads can ever become anything other than dude-farmers or
ranchers. They may in some instances, at least, be just about right.
Though my dearly-loved and remembered Granddad could pick
up a handful of earth and sort of gloat over it or revel in it, I have never been able to
get the "feel" or develop a similar appreciation. Oh, don't get me wrong—I
have really tried! When I was just a lad in South Perry Grammar School in Columbus, Ohio,
I developed a bad case of pleurisy because of some exertions during an important
track-meet. While I was recuperating from this illness, our family doctor would sit at my
side and tell me about his hobby of raising flowers in Hilliards, Ohio.
Somehow, there was a degree of inspiration in that kindly
old man's attention and conversation which lasted. Thus, the next year when I was
scheduled to begin high-school, I chose to go to a Country School at Hilliards, Ohio,
rather than North High School in Columbus. My only interest in attending Hilliards High
School at that time was in order that I might take Vocational Agriculture and become a
real farmer— or, at least, a raiser of flowers!
I shall never forget the humiliation of that first day in
that Vocational Agriculture class. The teacher passed around a questionnaire, and I filled
it out. One of the questions pertained to the amount of land I would have available to
raise certain grain and farm animals. I honestly and with complete innocency placed
"One Acre" in the blank; totally unaware of the requirements. Later in the
morning the teacher came back to my desk and as kindly as he could, but with a wry smile
which was readily picked up by the other lads in the class, told me that I did not have
enough land to qualify for the Agriculture Course.
Subsequently, I learned that many "farmers" in
other lands live on an acre or less, in many instances, and provide the foodstuffs for
their families. Too, some time later the requirements were so altered that a lad with but
a corner lot could qualify for a Vocational Agriculture program of studies. Thus, time and
an awareness that the early requirements of my High School were premature and unrealistic
healed my initial humiliation. And just a few years later I happily graduated after
satisfactorily completing all the requirements for my academic course.
In the years which have followed, I have planted a few
"gardens" and tried to get my bare feet acclimated to the "feel" of
the good earth. Too, on many occasions, I have attempted to mimic my Granddad's love for
the soil. But there still remains something unfriendly about a handful of dirt or a splash
of mud which I have never been able to overcome, though I gladly recognize that my life
actually depends upon the fruitage of God's Good Earth and though I have tramped many a
long mile in the mud and the dust.
Therefore, when I say that "A City Boy Gets
Smart," I do not mean to imply that I have more learning than my country cousins,
aunts and uncles or that I have at last attained a "country-appreciation" for
the soil. I only mean to infer that at least one city-lad who had the desire to be a
farmer and never made it had sense enough and the good fortune to marry a country-girl
from East Texas.
Now, though I may say in print that "I fell on the
'single-tree' between two galloping horses," my country-bred wife can take me aside
and explain that I actually "fell across the double-tree onto the tongue between two
galloping horses." Though I may never be "comfortable" with loam, sand or
clay under my fingernails or toenails, my mule-plowing, cottonpicking, corn-hoeing"
wife from that East Texas Country can revel in a handful of dirt as fully as my Granddad
ever did. And, through the influence of my wife, my boys already love to feel the
squishing of the good earth between their fingers.
I shall doubtless never go all of the places some will, and
I question seriously whether I shall ever become anything even close to a dude-farmer. But
I certainly can rejoice that God gave me sufficient good sense to love a country-girl who
once was just about as much at home behind the plow as some of my West Virginia relatives.
And it is with the presumption that I can draw on my wife's good, country sense that I can
say, "A City Boy Gets Smart."
X
GIVE ME LIBERTY
"Liberty" is a word which provides a multitude of
Impressions in the minds of our overspread world of humans. On the one hand there are
those who would used their liberty as a means of injuring or enslaving men or depleting
them of honestly gained material benefits; some in Communist countries suppose their
enslavement is freedom; others are satisfied with a liberty which enables them to obtain
three meals a day; and still others are desirous of a liberty which will enable them to
show a real and effectual altruistic attitude toward their fellowmen.
In the day when Patrick Henry raised his voice in the cry,
"Give me liberty or give me death," there were doubtless several concepts or
thought patterns involved. First, we know, of course, that he was desirous of the basic
freedom which is essential if we are to live personal lives to the benefit of those about
us and also indulge in the satisfactions of self-improvement. Secondly, we can know that
his cry was designed to point out the need for freedom from social and economic
enslavement. Even further, perhaps, the cry of Patrick Henry brought into the foreground
of human thinking the great need for religious freedom.
Not many of us, however, can really ever think of ourselves
as being as free as Patrick Henry wanted to be. In our day we are limited greatly in many
directions by many thought-to-be essential governmental regulations with which our
American forefathers were not acquainted. Today most of us city-dwellers are limited in
many ways; that is, we are fenced-in by inner loops and outer loops which encircle our
cities; our travels are limited, for the most part, by ribbons of concrete specifically
designed for our modern vehicles; our new of the wonders of nature surrounding us is
hmited by our neighbors' houses, the commercial buildings of our cities, the concrete
beneath us and the wild scream of the jets above us.
Even more than that, our personal lives consist in many
instances of innumerable limitations. We are too often enslaved to the ringing of an alarm
clock, routine meals, "required" social connections and memberships, and
specified routes to and from the jobs to which we are bound most of every year. We are
even enslaved during our moments of leisure by the door through which we must pass or the
clock we shall have to punch on the first day back on the job. Even in our most relaxed
moments we cannot get away from the reality that our freedom is just "liberty"
within a prescribed time-limitation.
Most of us are so much a part of the "patterns"
of mortal existence that we get into the habit of assuming our time is our own. In
reality, however, we are literally imprisoned by the circumstances of the society which
provides us all of our "opportunities." Even the fruits of our labors or our
salaries which we think of as our own to do with as we please, for the most part, really
belong to someone else before we ever get them. And, while we might cringed even at the
thought of having to forsake our "space-age advantages" in order to return to
"the good old days," our mortality will doubtless be more healthily mature if we
recognize the realities of our existence rather than "paranoically" (day
dreaming) assuming ourselves to be the benefactorees of freedoms never experienced by
others.
Though Patrick Henry's life was certainly limited by duties
which became his privileged obligations, many of the imprisoning aspects of our modern
society were unknown to him. In his day, one did not have to drive 25 or 50 miles or walk
a half of a day in order to reach some unspoiled spot of good earth. In those decades of
long ago, one did not have to cross the country in order to find a quiet place of
unsullied beauty; a place untainted by the rushing, racing world of moving feet and
turning wheels. Neither did one have to look toward space in Patrick Henry's day in order
to find new worlds to conquer.
In Patrick Henry's day one could leave the village square
and be upon the greensward of the countryside after but a few steps. Patrick Henry's life
was not limited to the traveling spaces afforded by ribbons of concrete and macadam or
impervious walks of steel and stone. Neither were Patrick Henry's views of God s creation
hindered by rising walls of steel, stone, cement and brick.
Patrick Henry's personality was not joltingly disturbed
each morning by the raucous ringing of a heartless alarm clock or the blaring of some
pop-tune on a radio supposedly designed to awaken one quietly to the tune of some
soothing, modern music. Patrick Henry's day was not interrupted by the scheduled catching
of a bus or the scheduled jostling with traffic over endless city streets prior to a
necessarily-prompt arrival at the place of business. The truth is, the lives of those in
Patrick Henry's day were made up of days weeks, months and years—not minutes and
seconds and a continuous resort to furtive watch-watching.
Today, we may still speak of 'liberty," but I fear
that there is a great deal less, connotatively, in our conception of "liberty"
than there was in that of Patrick Henry's. We talk about "liberty" and yet we
live lives which are an endless stream of imprisoning walls of circumstances, social
requirements, cultural involvements and, in many instances, endless rounds of limiting
religious practices and liturgies.
Thankfully, however, because of Patrick Henry and other men
like him who loved liberty more than they loved life itself, it is our privilege to choose
to limit ourselves within the framework of our society and within the limitations of our
individual and national aspirations. Because of the courage and the selflessness of a host
of our progenitors in this land of the "free," we are today free to live lives
of our own choosing to the fullest advantage of our enlarging and modern technological
advance. Too, we are free to surround ourselves by the marvels of engineering genius and
even free to follow limiting—yet almost endlessly-extending—ribbons of concrete
and asphalt combinations to points of our own choosing. Though we may too often forget,
even our privilege and opportunity to search out our own choice-shangrila via the
seemingly-limitless skyways above us is antecedently dependent upon the dedicated,
altruistic men in our history who agreed with Patrick Henry in his cry, "Give me
liberty. . ."
We need to realize, therefore, that it is because of our
liberty which has been won by faithful, brave and selfless ones and which has been
maintained only at the cost of unnumbered lives that we are really free to continue our
everyday, imprisoned lives. Even more, however, because of Patrick Henry and many others
who have given their all, we are even free on occasion to return to the hills of our
choice and abound—if for only a moment—in the wonder of a world and a life
almost untouched by the buzzing activities of industry, the scheduled activities of
commerce, the booming activities of an awakened science and the racing of our hurried
civilization harried by stresses, strains and endless crises seeking its measured
successes and recreations. Reflectively and retrospectively, I can personally know that
the attention to duty and unwavering loyalty which men such as Patrick Henry gave actually
made it possible for me to rejoice and abound in freedom even in the wonder of the West
Virginia Hills.
Now, in memory, Given, West Virginia, can live on as a very
real garden spot on God's good earth where men can still choose the hill from which they
will watch a sunset; a choice haven where men can still have the feathered creatures of
the wild awaken them from their nights of undisturbed slumber; a beauty spot in one of our
choice states of these United States where one can yet sit in quietness beside a babbling
brook and watch the creatures of the waterworld or roam the woods and catch the glimmer of
dashing squirrels and the flashes of color of birds flitting from branch to branch.
Though physically circumscribed in the work-a-day world of
living, obligation and duty, because of God-given men such as Patrick Henry, I am free to
make those mental or actual journeys to the top of "Thirteen Hill" and gaze at
the resplendent beauties of nature's finest dress in all directions; free to return in
memory or in actuality to the musty coolness of Spruce Holler and drink again at the
moss-covered pool of cold, clear water beneath that over-hanging, rocky cliff; and
especially free to recall to mind those mornings when—with the dew heavy on the grass
and the bushes—the sun, as a mighty giant with scientific know-how, would dispel the
shadows of night and turn the earth at Given into a seemingly limitless sea of
radiantly-luminous, sparkling diamonds.
Yes, the price of liberty has been and perhaps always will
be high. But every penny and every life which liberty has cost or will ever cost will
issue in a wealth of good for mankind and an incomprehensibly wonderful profusion of
memories. We are, of course, deeply and historically indebted to all who have provided
this heritage or who have had even the smallest part in the total provision of this
heritage.
Even more, however, we are debtors to assure even the
generations yet unborn freedom at least equal to that which we have known. Very clearly,
if our children are to know liberty we must be equally as alert and equally as willing as
Patrick Henry and others of his day to put our lives, affections and earthly possessions
into realities of that sacrificial cry, "Give me liberty or give me death."
XI
THESE THINGS REMAIN
Many years ago the wisest, most humble, most gracious and
the most truly humanitarian and sacrificial One who ever walked upon the earth was
approached by His followers. It was the desire of these followers that the Master should
particularly note the sturdinous and the beauty of the Temple in Jerusalem; truly, one of
the world's formost show-places in those days. His followers were obviously impressed by
the capital city of their nation and especially by its architecturally-well-designed
Temple buildings. The story goes thus:
And Jesus went out, and departed from the temple; and his
disciples came to him for to show him the buildings of the temple. And Jesus said unto
them, see ye not all these things ? Verily I say unto you, there shall not be left here
one stone upon another, that shall not be thrown down.
We, today, are often like those faithful and earnest
disciples of old; that is, we are proud of our streets, our sports arenas our historical
memorials, our beautiful buildings and our extensive businesses. Whenever our friends from
distant points arrive for a time of visiting and sight-seeing, we always are certain to
show them the beauties of our fair cities and especially the more obvious architectural
attractions.
If our visiting friends are art enthusiasts, we
city-dwellers invariably make it a point to see that they visit the more ornate of our
theaters, museums, art galleries and show places which bear particular, landscaped
relation to the "lay of the land" or are surrounded by some esthetic aura. If
our visiting *lends are civic-minded souls, we gloat over our particular form of city
government and its efficient council of local leaders, the values of our many civic minded
clubs, the extent of our several youth programs, the overall importance of the numerous
fraternal organizations, the efficiency of our city operation and the harmony there is in
our civic and business relationships. Or if our friends have particular academic or
religious interests, we invariably attempt to let them see how really progressive we are
by taking them on tours through a few of our newest high schools and by bringing attention
to the scientific excellence of our local colleges. And, regardless of the interests of
our visitors, we take it upon ourselves to demonstrate the extent of our religious
intelligence, advance and tolerance by pointing to the multitude of great church plants
and denominational enterprises.
Somehow the truth of the words spoken some 1900 years ago
just never seem real or applicable to our day or to the artificial nature of our modern
societies. But Henry Drummond, a well-known writer of the last century, gave evidence of a
much better discernment and was apparently nearer the truth than we, when he penned:
The wisdom of the ancients, where is it? It is wholly gone.
A schoolboy today knows more than Sir Isaac Newton knew . . . You put yesterday's
newspaper in the fire. Its knowledge has vanished away . . . Look how the coach has been
superseded by the use of steam. Look how electricity has superseded that, and swept a
hundred almost new inventions into oblivion . . . At every workshop you will see in the
back yard, a heap of old iron, a few wheels, a few levers, a few cranks, broken and eaten
with rust . . . All the boasted science and philosophy of this day will be old . . . And
in every branch of science it is the same.
In the midst of the deterioration and destruction of all
the wonders of human construction, however, some things remain. Though the architectural
wonders of Jerusalem were leveled both by men and by time, the Judean Hills yet remain.
Though the streets of the city of Jerusalem have been for some two millenniums in a state
of total disrepair, the flowing Jordan continues as of old to wend its way among the
eternal Palestinian hills and pour itself at last into the Dead Sea.
So has it been in much more recent history. The buildings
in which our forefathers lived are no more. The architectural accomplishments which once
graced the villages and the towns of our struggling progenitors in the Age of America's
infancy have long since been removed by time and mortal device. Though we may boast during
our lives concerning the wonders of our cities, we can know that in just a few tomorrow's
even the most durable of our structures shall have suffered a similar demise; either time
or human device will dispose of even our most wonderful engineering achievements because
of their native weaknesses or obsolescence.
But even after time and human ingenuity have done their
worst, the wonderful hills in the out-of-the way places such as Given, West Virginia, will
still be there. Perhaps we shall not be too far amiss in specifying the matter thus:
The pages of our truly indescribable mortality turn much
too quickly it seems,
And we learn that the best of our fleshy moments and years
are but diaphanous dreams.
All too soon we must see the end of our earthly ways with
all of their thrills and frills,
But long after time has closed her doors there will yet
remain—"The Eternal Hills."
When our cities' present magnificent structures of
concrete, steel, wood and stone are but memories in the waning minds of a few centenarians
and when our finest houses of business and domicile have been turned into piles of rubble
by the wrecking crews or into dust by inexorable time, the hills will still be there.
Though men may bulldoze a few of the peaks for purposes of their own design, actually the
hills will still be there. Though cities in all parts of our land and in others have waxed
and waned, arisen and fallen, progressed and deteriorated, the hills and the creeks around
Given, West Virginia, have remained.
Fifty years ago, 100 years ago, 150 years ago and even 250
years ago and more my great, great great, and even great great great granddad's, uncle's,
aunt's and grandma's were traveling the incomparable hills of West Virginia. These were
the same hills which were made to ring with my youthful voice, and to echo and re-echo, in
a much later day, to the voices of my own lads. And if there yet remains 200 years of time
—though I and all that I shall have ever done will long since have been utterly
forgotten—my great great great grandchildren may still be able to rejoice in the
wonder of the seeming deathlessness of the West Virginia Hills.
Yes, these things remain. The West Virginia Hills are, as I
have noted in my poem, truly "The Eternal Hills." Because I am so much more
mortal than "The Eternal Hills," I must expect the end of this journey of life
which has led, in a very real sense, from the hills to hell. But because of God's
wonderful grace and through the faith which He provides, I can rejoice in the midst of
every earthly blessing, take advantage of every God-given opportunity and look forward
expectantly to arrive very soon in Heaven that glorious Land of Eternal Day.
Copyright, 1964, by Raymond A. Waugh, Sr.
Printed in the United States of America
First edition
Updated Thursday, February 24, 2000
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