A young man was getting ready to graduate college. For
many months he had admired a beautiful sports car in a dealer's
showroom, and knowing his father could well afford it, he told
him that was all he wanted.
As Graduation Day approached, the young man awaited
signs that his father had purchased the car. Finally, on the
morning of his graduation his father called him into his private
study. His father told him how proud he was to have such a fine
son, and told him how much he loved him. He handed his son
a beautiful wrapped gift box.
Curious, but somewhat disappointed the young man
opened the box and found a lovely, leather-bound Bible. Angrily,
he raised his voice at his father and said, "With all your money you
give me a Bible?" and stormed out of the house, leaving the holy
book.
Many years passed and the young man was very successful in
business.
He had a beautiful home and wonderful family, but realized his
father was very old, and thought perhaps he should go to him. He
had not seen him since that graduation day. Before he could make
arrangements, he received a telegram telling him his father had
passed away, and willed all of his possessions to his son. He
needed to come home immediately and take care things.
When he arrived at his father's house, sudden sadness and
regret filled his heart.
He began to search his father's important papers and
saw the still new Bible, just as he had left it years ago. With
tears, he opened the Bible and began to turn the pages. As he
read those words, a car key dropped from an envelope
taped behind the Bible.
It had a tag with the dealer's name, the same dealer who had the
sports car he had desired. On the tag was the date of his graduation,
and the words...PAID IN FULL.
How many times do we miss God's blessings because they are not
packaged as we expected?
Please share this :)
Monday, October 17, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Lester Warner Goes Hunting
When Lester Warner of York, Pa., left home for the mountains for the first day of deer hunting, he told his wife, Shirley, it would be for the last time.
From the York Daily Record:
The sons knew their father would need to be comfortable while hunting.Three weeks before that, the 86-year-old was in the hospital, dehydrated and sick from the chemotherapy he was receiving in his battle against prostate cancer. The cancer has spread, however, and he recently stopped treatment.
Warner, a lifelong hunter, wanted to spend the first day of hunting in the outdoors and with his family, as he has for decades. Warner’s sons, Brian and Scott, hoped their frail father could make it, but they weren’t sure he could. Les used a walker when he came home from the hospital, and his wife had to lift him into bed. But therapists gave him exercises – moving his legs and arms – to get ready for hunting. His strength improved. Scott picked up his father last Sunday at his Dover Township home, and the two traveled to Brian’s home in Huntingdon County, in central Pennsylvania. Brian owns a couple farms in the mountains, and the family gathers at the Big Pine Camp nearby.
The sons knew their father would need to be comfortable while hunting on the side of Broadtop Mountain. So Brian hauled a recliner to the top and put it in an 8-foot-by-10-foot hut the family had built as a shelter for Les years ago. On the first day, the men woke up at 4 a.m. Brian drove Les in the truck to the top of the mountain. Scott hunted about 300 yards away, and Brian stayed with his father. They watched the sun rise and waited for a deer.
It didn’t take long.
About 8 a.m., a buck ran out of the woods, into a clearing and stopped. Brian pointed it out to his father. Les told his son to shoot it, but Brian wanted his father to bag it. He told his dad to take his time. Les aimed his son’s 243 Winchester, squeezed the trigger and killed the 8-point buck with one shot. Then the father looked up at his son and said: “Never give up.”
“It was the biggest buck he ever shot,” Brian said. It was a good morning, Les said, and he thanked God. The family took pictures of Les with his kill. Even the grandsons came over to get their pictures taken with Pa-Pa and the buck.
Brian Warner called his mother to report the news. Both cried.
“I know that for a while he forgot he had cancer, and that’s the best part,” Shirley Warner said.
Scott drove his father back home late last week and took the deer to a butcher shop. They’ll get roasts, sweet bologna and other cuts of meat. The antlers, which had an 18-inch spread, will be mounted. They’ll go on display at the family’s hunting cabin with other mounts from past hunts.
The family feels blessed that Les had another year to hunt with his loved ones – and he got a big buck, too.
“It is a miracle,” Shirley Warner said.
From the York Daily Record:
The sons knew their father would need to be comfortable while hunting.Three weeks before that, the 86-year-old was in the hospital, dehydrated and sick from the chemotherapy he was receiving in his battle against prostate cancer. The cancer has spread, however, and he recently stopped treatment.
Warner, a lifelong hunter, wanted to spend the first day of hunting in the outdoors and with his family, as he has for decades. Warner’s sons, Brian and Scott, hoped their frail father could make it, but they weren’t sure he could. Les used a walker when he came home from the hospital, and his wife had to lift him into bed. But therapists gave him exercises – moving his legs and arms – to get ready for hunting. His strength improved. Scott picked up his father last Sunday at his Dover Township home, and the two traveled to Brian’s home in Huntingdon County, in central Pennsylvania. Brian owns a couple farms in the mountains, and the family gathers at the Big Pine Camp nearby.
The sons knew their father would need to be comfortable while hunting on the side of Broadtop Mountain. So Brian hauled a recliner to the top and put it in an 8-foot-by-10-foot hut the family had built as a shelter for Les years ago. On the first day, the men woke up at 4 a.m. Brian drove Les in the truck to the top of the mountain. Scott hunted about 300 yards away, and Brian stayed with his father. They watched the sun rise and waited for a deer.
It didn’t take long.
About 8 a.m., a buck ran out of the woods, into a clearing and stopped. Brian pointed it out to his father. Les told his son to shoot it, but Brian wanted his father to bag it. He told his dad to take his time. Les aimed his son’s 243 Winchester, squeezed the trigger and killed the 8-point buck with one shot. Then the father looked up at his son and said: “Never give up.”
“It was the biggest buck he ever shot,” Brian said. It was a good morning, Les said, and he thanked God. The family took pictures of Les with his kill. Even the grandsons came over to get their pictures taken with Pa-Pa and the buck.
Brian Warner called his mother to report the news. Both cried.
“I know that for a while he forgot he had cancer, and that’s the best part,” Shirley Warner said.
Scott drove his father back home late last week and took the deer to a butcher shop. They’ll get roasts, sweet bologna and other cuts of meat. The antlers, which had an 18-inch spread, will be mounted. They’ll go on display at the family’s hunting cabin with other mounts from past hunts.
The family feels blessed that Les had another year to hunt with his loved ones – and he got a big buck, too.
“It is a miracle,” Shirley Warner said.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
It is Well
It is well with my soul
Horatio Spafford (1828-1888) was a wealthy Chicago lawyer with a thriving legal practice, a beautiful home, a wife, four daughters and a son. He was also a devout Christian and faithful student of the Scriptures. His circle of friends included Dwight L. Moody, Ira Sankey and various other well-known Christians of the day.
At the very height of his financial and professional success, Horatio and his wife Anna suffered the tragic loss of their young son. Shortly thereafter on October 8, 1871, the Great Chicago Fire destroyed almost every real estate investment that Spafford had.
In 1873, Spafford scheduled a boat trip to Europe in order to give his wife and daughters a much needed vacation and time to recover from the tragedy. He also went to join Moody and Sankey on an evangelistic campaign in England. Spafford sent his wife and daughters ahead of him while he remained in Chicago to take care of some unexpected last minute business. Several days later he received notice that his family's ship had encountered a collision. All four of his daughters drowned; only his wife had survived.
With a heavy heart, Spafford boarded a boat that would take him to his grieving Anna in England. It was on this trip that he penned those now famous words, When sorrow like sea billows roll; it is well, it is well with my soul..
Philip Bliss (1838-1876), composer of many songs including Hold the Fort, Let the Lower Lights be Burning, and Jesus Loves Even Me, was so impressed with Spafford's life and the words of his hymn that he composed a beautiful piece of music to accompany the lyrics. The song was published by Bliss and Sankey, in 1876.
For more than a century, the tragic story of one man has given hope to countless thousands who have lifted their voices to sing, It Is Well With My Soul.
This visual, Be Not Anxious Church PowerPoint, provides an ideal enhancement to the words of the song.
It Is Well With My Soul
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
Refrain:
It is well (it is well),
with my soul (with my soul),
It is well, it is well with my soul.
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ hath regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.
Refrain
My sin, oh the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to His cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
Refrain
For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.
Refrain
And Lord haste the day, when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.
Refrain
Horatio Spafford (1828-1888) was a wealthy Chicago lawyer with a thriving legal practice, a beautiful home, a wife, four daughters and a son. He was also a devout Christian and faithful student of the Scriptures. His circle of friends included Dwight L. Moody, Ira Sankey and various other well-known Christians of the day.
At the very height of his financial and professional success, Horatio and his wife Anna suffered the tragic loss of their young son. Shortly thereafter on October 8, 1871, the Great Chicago Fire destroyed almost every real estate investment that Spafford had.
In 1873, Spafford scheduled a boat trip to Europe in order to give his wife and daughters a much needed vacation and time to recover from the tragedy. He also went to join Moody and Sankey on an evangelistic campaign in England. Spafford sent his wife and daughters ahead of him while he remained in Chicago to take care of some unexpected last minute business. Several days later he received notice that his family's ship had encountered a collision. All four of his daughters drowned; only his wife had survived.
With a heavy heart, Spafford boarded a boat that would take him to his grieving Anna in England. It was on this trip that he penned those now famous words, When sorrow like sea billows roll; it is well, it is well with my soul..
Philip Bliss (1838-1876), composer of many songs including Hold the Fort, Let the Lower Lights be Burning, and Jesus Loves Even Me, was so impressed with Spafford's life and the words of his hymn that he composed a beautiful piece of music to accompany the lyrics. The song was published by Bliss and Sankey, in 1876.
For more than a century, the tragic story of one man has given hope to countless thousands who have lifted their voices to sing, It Is Well With My Soul.
This visual, Be Not Anxious Church PowerPoint, provides an ideal enhancement to the words of the song.
It Is Well With My Soul
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
Refrain:
It is well (it is well),
with my soul (with my soul),
It is well, it is well with my soul.
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ hath regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.
Refrain
My sin, oh the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to His cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
Refrain
For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.
Refrain
And Lord haste the day, when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.
Refrain
Friday, October 7, 2011
DADDY
This story from Cal Hyers should touch us all...
Daddy
4:30 a.m.
“Time to get up,” Daddy would say.
It was Daddy’s internal alarm clock that would awaken him during our “Speck" vacation. I'm referring, of course, to Speckled Perch. That’s what folks in central Florida would call the crappie Daddy and I would fish for in the waters of Lake Beresford.
It was the favorite week of Daddy’s year. The long-awaited fishing trip was the highlight of a long year of repairing cable lines for Southern Bell and running a small farm. He would rouse me from the comfort of my bed to dress for a day of "hunting slab."
It was usually mid-spring to early summer when he would book us for a week at the Hontoon Marina in DeLand, Florida. The rest of the family, Mama and three sisters, would come along but pass on the early wakeup call, instead waiting until later to join us in our fishing adventure.
By 5am, Daddy and I would be eating at his favorite restaurant for breakfast—a truckstop place I fail to remember the name of, but I can't forget that they made the best tasting grits and eggs I can remember. It was always a treat to talk to the different truckers who frequented the place.
With a full belly, Daddy and I would go back to the marina, where he would rent a slip for the Bass Tracker PF-16 he had purchased for this auspicious annual occasion. The boat would be ready the night before, being that Daddy was not one to get ready the day of. He made sure the poles were rigged, the gas tank full, and the afternoon lunch packed. We were not coming back for lunch. Lunch was a waste of time and travel according to Daddy. Also it took up too much fishing time. Many times a bologna sandwich, pack of malt crackers, and plenty of Coca Colas were the items on the menu for the lunchtime feast.
In the marina store, we bought the minnows we would need, and then walk down to the boat. At the first sign of safe light, we would set out into the St. John’s River.
The early morning air would cut through my clothes like pins. I learned if I turned my back into the wind, it was a bit more bearable. What was even better was being able to sit right behind Daddy and use him as a shield against the piercing wind. I still remember smelling his Old Spice as we raced toward his favorite patch of lily pads. After fifteen minutes of shivering in the morning air, we had a minnow on a hook and were dipping into the spaces between the lily pads. Each dip brought a different anticipation of when the first strike would come.
Daddy had an uncanny knack of catching the first fish of the day. He never let on he had hooked a speck until I heard the singing of the reel on his fiberglass pole. By the time I heard his reel singing, Daddy would have the fish in the boat. I would ask him where he hooked the fish. “Over there,” he would reply, without pointing or even nodding his head. I just had to open the live well and let him deposit the prize. Finding specks was my problem to figure out. Eventually, I would figure out how to find the ever-elusive prey. Just keep fishing.
We would fish that same set of lily pads at the same time every day. Just like anyplace Daddy would fish, if the specks were biting, we stayed; if they weren’t, we moved to another place.
That was typically the routine for the day: keep trying and trying, until success came our way. Daddy would maneuver the boat with precise movement to avoid running over the swarm of specks we would often encounter. He would control the trolling motor with one foot, fish with one hand, drink his Coke with the other hand, and all without getting too close to the limbs of the trees on the banks of the St. Johns. He knew if we got close to the limbs of the trees, I would find a way to go squirrel fishing.
I would catch one to every three of Daddy’s. Our goal was to catch the limit. Often we would come close, but I don’t remember ever catching the limit. But, it was sure fun trying. We would try many techniques, and even experiment with radical ideas. But, Daddy would often stay with dipping the minnows in amongst the lily pads.
By the time darkness would start setting in, we would head back to the Hontoon Marina. According to how far we were away, Daddy would set toward the marina and get there with barely enough light to see our way back to the slip. We would unload our catch into the cooler, and clean them in the cleaning station at the end of the dock under the watchful eye of an owl. The marina manager told us if we gave him one of our fish, he would leave us alone. Daddy didn’t want to give up any of our catch the first time we encountered him. Well, the first time we stepped away from the cooler, the owl swept down, flipped the lid of the cooler himself, and took off with one of our fish! Then, sure enough, he left us alone to clean our fish. After that, we would sacrifice one fish to the owl every time we went to clean our fish.
Now I live in LaGrange, Georgia. The memories of Daddy and I fishing still live while I fish in West Point Lake. The techniques are a lot different, but the effort is still the same: keep trying until you find them. Daddy, I have even found a way to avoid the hot part of the day and the activities of the ski boats. It’s called night fishing. Man, I’ve got lights which attract millions of baitfish, spinner rods that fish thirty feet deep if I have to, and I'm able to tie up under Yellow Jacket Creek Bridge without having to run the trolling motor.
Oh, yeah, I’ve still got the Bass Tracker PF-16 we used in DeLand.
Thank you, Daddy, for the lessons you taught me and the good times we had fishing together.
Cal
Daddy
4:30 a.m.
“Time to get up,” Daddy would say.
It was Daddy’s internal alarm clock that would awaken him during our “Speck" vacation. I'm referring, of course, to Speckled Perch. That’s what folks in central Florida would call the crappie Daddy and I would fish for in the waters of Lake Beresford.
It was the favorite week of Daddy’s year. The long-awaited fishing trip was the highlight of a long year of repairing cable lines for Southern Bell and running a small farm. He would rouse me from the comfort of my bed to dress for a day of "hunting slab."
It was usually mid-spring to early summer when he would book us for a week at the Hontoon Marina in DeLand, Florida. The rest of the family, Mama and three sisters, would come along but pass on the early wakeup call, instead waiting until later to join us in our fishing adventure.
By 5am, Daddy and I would be eating at his favorite restaurant for breakfast—a truckstop place I fail to remember the name of, but I can't forget that they made the best tasting grits and eggs I can remember. It was always a treat to talk to the different truckers who frequented the place.
With a full belly, Daddy and I would go back to the marina, where he would rent a slip for the Bass Tracker PF-16 he had purchased for this auspicious annual occasion. The boat would be ready the night before, being that Daddy was not one to get ready the day of. He made sure the poles were rigged, the gas tank full, and the afternoon lunch packed. We were not coming back for lunch. Lunch was a waste of time and travel according to Daddy. Also it took up too much fishing time. Many times a bologna sandwich, pack of malt crackers, and plenty of Coca Colas were the items on the menu for the lunchtime feast.
In the marina store, we bought the minnows we would need, and then walk down to the boat. At the first sign of safe light, we would set out into the St. John’s River.
The early morning air would cut through my clothes like pins. I learned if I turned my back into the wind, it was a bit more bearable. What was even better was being able to sit right behind Daddy and use him as a shield against the piercing wind. I still remember smelling his Old Spice as we raced toward his favorite patch of lily pads. After fifteen minutes of shivering in the morning air, we had a minnow on a hook and were dipping into the spaces between the lily pads. Each dip brought a different anticipation of when the first strike would come.
Daddy had an uncanny knack of catching the first fish of the day. He never let on he had hooked a speck until I heard the singing of the reel on his fiberglass pole. By the time I heard his reel singing, Daddy would have the fish in the boat. I would ask him where he hooked the fish. “Over there,” he would reply, without pointing or even nodding his head. I just had to open the live well and let him deposit the prize. Finding specks was my problem to figure out. Eventually, I would figure out how to find the ever-elusive prey. Just keep fishing.
We would fish that same set of lily pads at the same time every day. Just like anyplace Daddy would fish, if the specks were biting, we stayed; if they weren’t, we moved to another place.
That was typically the routine for the day: keep trying and trying, until success came our way. Daddy would maneuver the boat with precise movement to avoid running over the swarm of specks we would often encounter. He would control the trolling motor with one foot, fish with one hand, drink his Coke with the other hand, and all without getting too close to the limbs of the trees on the banks of the St. Johns. He knew if we got close to the limbs of the trees, I would find a way to go squirrel fishing.
I would catch one to every three of Daddy’s. Our goal was to catch the limit. Often we would come close, but I don’t remember ever catching the limit. But, it was sure fun trying. We would try many techniques, and even experiment with radical ideas. But, Daddy would often stay with dipping the minnows in amongst the lily pads.
By the time darkness would start setting in, we would head back to the Hontoon Marina. According to how far we were away, Daddy would set toward the marina and get there with barely enough light to see our way back to the slip. We would unload our catch into the cooler, and clean them in the cleaning station at the end of the dock under the watchful eye of an owl. The marina manager told us if we gave him one of our fish, he would leave us alone. Daddy didn’t want to give up any of our catch the first time we encountered him. Well, the first time we stepped away from the cooler, the owl swept down, flipped the lid of the cooler himself, and took off with one of our fish! Then, sure enough, he left us alone to clean our fish. After that, we would sacrifice one fish to the owl every time we went to clean our fish.
Now I live in LaGrange, Georgia. The memories of Daddy and I fishing still live while I fish in West Point Lake. The techniques are a lot different, but the effort is still the same: keep trying until you find them. Daddy, I have even found a way to avoid the hot part of the day and the activities of the ski boats. It’s called night fishing. Man, I’ve got lights which attract millions of baitfish, spinner rods that fish thirty feet deep if I have to, and I'm able to tie up under Yellow Jacket Creek Bridge without having to run the trolling motor.
Oh, yeah, I’ve still got the Bass Tracker PF-16 we used in DeLand.
Thank you, Daddy, for the lessons you taught me and the good times we had fishing together.
Cal
Thursday, October 6, 2011
The Story of the Lifesaving Station
The Story of the Lifesaving Station
On a dangerous sea coast where shipwrecks often occur, there was once a crude little life-saving station. The building was just a hut, and there was only one boat, but the few devoted members kept a constant watch over the sea and with no thought for themselves went out day and night tirelessly searching for the lost. Some of those who were saved, and various others in the surrounding area, wanted to become associated with the station and give of their time and money and effort for the support of its work. New boats were bought and new crews trained. The little lifesaving station grew.
Some members of the lifesaving station were unhappy that the building was so crude and poorly equipped. They felt that a more comfortable place should be provided as the first refuge of those saved from the sea. They replaced the emergency cots with beds and put better furniture in the enlarged building. Now the lifesaving station became a popular gathering place for its members, and they decorated it beautifully and furnished it exquisitely, because they used it as sort of a club.
Fewer members were now interested in going to sea on lifesaving missions, so they hired lifeboat crews to do this work. The lifesaving motif still prevailed in this club’s decorations, and there was a miniature lifeboat in the room where the club initiations were held.
About this time a large ship was wrecked off the coast, and the hired crews brought in boatloads of cold, wet, and half-drowned people. They were dirty and sick, and some of them had black skin and some had yellow skin. The beautiful new club was in chaos. So the property committee immediately had a shower house built outside the club where victims of shipwreck could be cleaned up before coming inside.
At the next meeting, there was a split in the club membership. Most of the members wanted to stop the club’s lifesaving activities, since they were unpleasant and a hindrance to the normal social life of the club. Some members insisted upon lifesaving as their primary purpose and pointed out that they were still called a lifesaving station. But they were finally voted down and told that if they wanted to save the lives of all the various kinds of people who were shipwrecked in those waters, they could begin their own lifesaving station down the coast. They did.
As the years went by, the new station experienced the same changes that had occurred in the old. It evolved into a club, and yet another lifesaving station was founded. History continued to repeat itself, and if you visit that sea coast today you will find a number of exclusive clubs along the shore. Shipwrecks are frequent in those waters, but most of the people drown.
On a dangerous sea coast where shipwrecks often occur, there was once a crude little life-saving station. The building was just a hut, and there was only one boat, but the few devoted members kept a constant watch over the sea and with no thought for themselves went out day and night tirelessly searching for the lost. Some of those who were saved, and various others in the surrounding area, wanted to become associated with the station and give of their time and money and effort for the support of its work. New boats were bought and new crews trained. The little lifesaving station grew.
Some members of the lifesaving station were unhappy that the building was so crude and poorly equipped. They felt that a more comfortable place should be provided as the first refuge of those saved from the sea. They replaced the emergency cots with beds and put better furniture in the enlarged building. Now the lifesaving station became a popular gathering place for its members, and they decorated it beautifully and furnished it exquisitely, because they used it as sort of a club.
Fewer members were now interested in going to sea on lifesaving missions, so they hired lifeboat crews to do this work. The lifesaving motif still prevailed in this club’s decorations, and there was a miniature lifeboat in the room where the club initiations were held.
About this time a large ship was wrecked off the coast, and the hired crews brought in boatloads of cold, wet, and half-drowned people. They were dirty and sick, and some of them had black skin and some had yellow skin. The beautiful new club was in chaos. So the property committee immediately had a shower house built outside the club where victims of shipwreck could be cleaned up before coming inside.
At the next meeting, there was a split in the club membership. Most of the members wanted to stop the club’s lifesaving activities, since they were unpleasant and a hindrance to the normal social life of the club. Some members insisted upon lifesaving as their primary purpose and pointed out that they were still called a lifesaving station. But they were finally voted down and told that if they wanted to save the lives of all the various kinds of people who were shipwrecked in those waters, they could begin their own lifesaving station down the coast. They did.
As the years went by, the new station experienced the same changes that had occurred in the old. It evolved into a club, and yet another lifesaving station was founded. History continued to repeat itself, and if you visit that sea coast today you will find a number of exclusive clubs along the shore. Shipwrecks are frequent in those waters, but most of the people drown.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
On the Appalachian, Some hike off the recession
On The Appalachian, Some Hike Off The Recession
by THOMAS PIERCE
June 27, 2009
For the record, my friend Brad Wright is not a drug dealer. But his new nickname does suggest otherwise.
"My nickname is 'Pusher' because my friend said I looked like a drug dealer because I was carrying around a giant bag of ibuprofen and calcium supplements the first day," he says. "And I was offering them to everyone."
All thru-hikers on the Appalachian Trail eventually earn a nickname, whether on their first mile in Georgia or their last in Maine. And Pusher has logged more than 1,000 miles since March.
I joined him for a few days near Harpers Ferry, W.Va., to see if the recession has had any effect on who's making the journey this year.
Before he was "Pusher the Backpacker," my friend was "Brad Wright the Office Manager." He worked for a commercial real estate firm in Washington, D.C. When development slowed down last year, Wright grew bored and began plotting his adventure in the hills beyond his cubicle walls.
"I was the only one left in the office by the time I quit," he says.
After three months of lugging around his food, clothes and tent in a frame backpack, he's finally reached Harpers Ferry, the so-called psychological halfway point of the entire trail. The actual halfway point is roughly 75 miles north, but because Virginia is such a long and arduous state, making it across the state line is a feat worthy of celebration and some much-needed rest.
Most of that celebration happens at the Appalachian Trail Headquarters, which is based in Harpers Ferry. Thru-hikers often elect to take a day off here. Upon arrival, weary backpackers are directed to a back room where they can sip cold water, check e-mail, pick up packages and rest their feet on the electric massager. Hikers also get their pictures taken and those are placed in big, black binders that date back for decades. Not much has changed in all those years, except the gear and maybe the haircuts.
Another hiker has just arrived at the headquarters. Out here, he goes by "The Duder." His dog, Donny, stretches out beside him on the hot concrete. His leash is gnawed through and retied in places. The Duder examines Donny's paws and then leans back against his pack to sip on a frosty Gatorade.
"I don't see how people could get off for six months at a time," he tells me.
Off the trail, the Duder is actually Chris Lee, a 26-year-old recent graduate of West Virginia University. His dark, curly hair nearly reaches his sweat-stained orange tank top. The Duder is hiking the trail in sections. His girlfriend is supposed to pick him up soon.
He hasn't found a job yet but is interested in journalism, possibly in writing for outdoor magazines. That's why he sees this trip as something of a resume builder. But he adds that there's never a good reason to be hiking "senseless miles."
"I was talking to one old man one day, and he said this is hands-down the single most selfish act one person can do — leaving behind all your people to worry about you," he says.
People come to the trail for any number of reasons: to accomplish something physically daunting, to enjoy the natural world or just to get away from it all. But committing six months of your life to a project that can cost anywhere from $3,000 to $5,000 is a gutsy thing to do in a recession.
I meet one hiker who's taken a six-month leave of absence from her job as an environmental consultant in Atlanta. "Couscous" is 29-year-old Kim Morley. She admits she sometimes worries the job might not be there when she's finished her adventure.
"I send out e-mails from towns to a bunch of people and copy my boss," she says, "so they know where I am and that I should be done sometime in September and back."
And if her job no longer exists, she says, she'll figure something out.
For Rusty Towery, taking this much time away isn't difficult at all. Nicknamed "Wheeler," he was laid off in November from construction equipment manufacturer Caterpillar. He sees this as an amazing opportunity.
"I have no major responsibilities yet in life so [I] might as well do something like this while I can, instead of having to wait like the other half of the population on the trail," he says.
Wheeler is 26 years old. After being laid off last year, he worked a series of odd jobs to save up a little money. He also ran each day to build his endurance. He says his friends were a little jealous the day he left, even joking that they wished they'd been laid off, too.
One unexpected perk of his trip has been the chance to do a little networking. He might even have a job when he reaches Maine in September.
"I had a few things come about from the trail," he says. "Oddly enough, it's been pretty productive in that regard."
As for my friend Pusher, he tries not to think about the economy or what he'll do once he's finished. He's taking it one mile at a time, and he has a thousand more of those to go.
Before we part ways, we lower the bear bag with all his food from a tree limb, and he packs up his tent in the early morning sunlight. He has this all down to a science and can recite the weight of almost every item in his pack. Like all hikers, he's shed the unessential gear.
"It was good seeing you," he says and climbs the hill to the trail — off into unknown territory.
When he emerges on the other end, there's no telling what the world might look like.
by THOMAS PIERCE
June 27, 2009
For the record, my friend Brad Wright is not a drug dealer. But his new nickname does suggest otherwise.
"My nickname is 'Pusher' because my friend said I looked like a drug dealer because I was carrying around a giant bag of ibuprofen and calcium supplements the first day," he says. "And I was offering them to everyone."
All thru-hikers on the Appalachian Trail eventually earn a nickname, whether on their first mile in Georgia or their last in Maine. And Pusher has logged more than 1,000 miles since March.
I joined him for a few days near Harpers Ferry, W.Va., to see if the recession has had any effect on who's making the journey this year.
Before he was "Pusher the Backpacker," my friend was "Brad Wright the Office Manager." He worked for a commercial real estate firm in Washington, D.C. When development slowed down last year, Wright grew bored and began plotting his adventure in the hills beyond his cubicle walls.
"I was the only one left in the office by the time I quit," he says.
After three months of lugging around his food, clothes and tent in a frame backpack, he's finally reached Harpers Ferry, the so-called psychological halfway point of the entire trail. The actual halfway point is roughly 75 miles north, but because Virginia is such a long and arduous state, making it across the state line is a feat worthy of celebration and some much-needed rest.
Most of that celebration happens at the Appalachian Trail Headquarters, which is based in Harpers Ferry. Thru-hikers often elect to take a day off here. Upon arrival, weary backpackers are directed to a back room where they can sip cold water, check e-mail, pick up packages and rest their feet on the electric massager. Hikers also get their pictures taken and those are placed in big, black binders that date back for decades. Not much has changed in all those years, except the gear and maybe the haircuts.
Another hiker has just arrived at the headquarters. Out here, he goes by "The Duder." His dog, Donny, stretches out beside him on the hot concrete. His leash is gnawed through and retied in places. The Duder examines Donny's paws and then leans back against his pack to sip on a frosty Gatorade.
"I don't see how people could get off for six months at a time," he tells me.
Off the trail, the Duder is actually Chris Lee, a 26-year-old recent graduate of West Virginia University. His dark, curly hair nearly reaches his sweat-stained orange tank top. The Duder is hiking the trail in sections. His girlfriend is supposed to pick him up soon.
He hasn't found a job yet but is interested in journalism, possibly in writing for outdoor magazines. That's why he sees this trip as something of a resume builder. But he adds that there's never a good reason to be hiking "senseless miles."
"I was talking to one old man one day, and he said this is hands-down the single most selfish act one person can do — leaving behind all your people to worry about you," he says.
People come to the trail for any number of reasons: to accomplish something physically daunting, to enjoy the natural world or just to get away from it all. But committing six months of your life to a project that can cost anywhere from $3,000 to $5,000 is a gutsy thing to do in a recession.
I meet one hiker who's taken a six-month leave of absence from her job as an environmental consultant in Atlanta. "Couscous" is 29-year-old Kim Morley. She admits she sometimes worries the job might not be there when she's finished her adventure.
"I send out e-mails from towns to a bunch of people and copy my boss," she says, "so they know where I am and that I should be done sometime in September and back."
And if her job no longer exists, she says, she'll figure something out.
For Rusty Towery, taking this much time away isn't difficult at all. Nicknamed "Wheeler," he was laid off in November from construction equipment manufacturer Caterpillar. He sees this as an amazing opportunity.
"I have no major responsibilities yet in life so [I] might as well do something like this while I can, instead of having to wait like the other half of the population on the trail," he says.
Wheeler is 26 years old. After being laid off last year, he worked a series of odd jobs to save up a little money. He also ran each day to build his endurance. He says his friends were a little jealous the day he left, even joking that they wished they'd been laid off, too.
One unexpected perk of his trip has been the chance to do a little networking. He might even have a job when he reaches Maine in September.
"I had a few things come about from the trail," he says. "Oddly enough, it's been pretty productive in that regard."
As for my friend Pusher, he tries not to think about the economy or what he'll do once he's finished. He's taking it one mile at a time, and he has a thousand more of those to go.
Before we part ways, we lower the bear bag with all his food from a tree limb, and he packs up his tent in the early morning sunlight. He has this all down to a science and can recite the weight of almost every item in his pack. Like all hikers, he's shed the unessential gear.
"It was good seeing you," he says and climbs the hill to the trail — off into unknown territory.
When he emerges on the other end, there's no telling what the world might look like.
The Story Of Matthew Pattison
By: Tina Pattison
My beautiful, sweet Matthew was diagnosed with a cancer that most of the time is curable, but not in his case. He had a rare type that multiplied faster than normal.
The treatments were harsh and I prayed to God that there might be a way for me to ease my boy's suffering. After a second bout in February 1998, Matthew underwent a stem cell transplant. As I waited for the procedure to come to a close, I once again turned my thoughts to God and His comforting embrace. I prayed that this treatment would be the end, that his doctors would, come to me and smile and tell me that the cancer was gone. What I prayed for most was the will to be strong for both myself and Matthew, to stand as a pillar for the both of us when Matthew was too weak to even sit up in bed. I prayed the prayer that every mother prays when she is in this wretched situation I prayed that there might be some way to ease my son's pain.
During this time, I would sit by Matthew's bedside, gently stroking his arm with my finger, and we would talk about "dreams" - mine and his. I asked him what he would like to do in the future, blocking out of my mind how difficult a Word like "future" can be when it is so uncertain. Matthew's forehead wrinkled for only a moment as he thought of what he wanted to do most in the world. He looked at me with eyes that were for that moment not those of a dying child, but those of a boy who wished for adventure - outside of the sterile confinement of a hospital room. He said, "Hunt moose with Dad." They had hunted together since Matt was a boy.
But a big game hunt like Matt imagined would cost close to $ 10,000. With six children including one being tested for muscular dystrophy, it was far more than we could afford.
So, I contacted a wish granting organization. I had been told that they were devoted to making the dreams of terminally ill children come true, and I thought that they might be our best hope. In a rush of words and raw emotion I told the person who answered my call about Matthew's wish. The silence on the other end of the line stretched on for what seemed like an eternity before I was told that they were terribly sorry, but that they no longer fulfilled requests for hunting and unfortunately since Matthew was past his eighteenth birthday, he was no longer eligible for a wish of any kind.
Trembling and heartbroken, I wiped at the tears rolling down my face and wondered who would be able to help make Matthew's wish come true. Desperate, I called a list of outfitters and, after many agonizing and painful phone calls, we finally received a call from Clayton Grosso, an outfitter in Nordegg, a tiny village in Alberta, Canada. He told me that his wife Hilda had lost her right arm to cancer several years before and they both were so deeply touched by Matthew's story that they knew they must do everything in their power to provide him with a hunt. They assured us that everything would be taken care of at no cost to us! But as the October hunt neared, Matt's platelet count dipped dangerously low. His doctor warned him not to go on the trip. Matt just looked at him and said, ''I'm going and that's all there is to it." He knew that it was one of those dreams that wouldn't come around again. He knew it could be his last shot.
When my husband Chet and Matt arrived in Nordegg, they were shocked by what Clayton and Hilda had done. The two had told friends and neighbors about Matt and asked for help. The compassionate citizens of Nordegg went beyond anything I could imagine in their desire to do something for my son.
The town of 68 people graciously chipped in to cover the costs of the hunt. A helicopter pilot offered a free ride into the mountains. A local lodge gave them free housing and grocery stores provided the food. A feed store even gave them grain for the horses. And because Matt's blood had lost its clotting capabilities from the chemotherapy, Clayton's daughter-in-law, a licensed paramedic, took off a week from work and went along in case of any medical problems.
On their first day, Matt and Clayton's son Gene, a professional hunting guide, spotted a huge bull moose. With two shots, Matt dropped the bull in its tracks. Chet's eyes filled with pride and the realization that our son had fulfilled his dream.
For the rest of their stay, Matt and Chet enjoyed the hospitality of the Grosso family and the people of Nordegg. I will never forget the joy that these kindhearted family brought to my son. They treated Matt as more than just a stranger in need-they treated him as though he were family. They opened their homes and even shared a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner with Matt and Chet.
The fulfillment of his wish had a miraculous effect on Matt. Day by day, he grew healthier and stronger until one day God answered our prayers and told us that Matt was free and clear. He enjoyed a great season hunting for small game and deer, and had a fresh new outlook on fife. He never forgot the kind angels who helped him. During the Christmas holidays he talked about his plans of going to Canada to help Clayton, as a way of saying "thank you" to the Grossos for everything they had done.
Then in February on his six month check-up, my heart broke once again. The doctors discovered that the cancer was back and it was spreading quickly through his body. On April 28, 1999, six months after his hunting trip in Nordegg, God took Matt into his embrace.
After his passing, I decided to start a foundation that would fulfill dreams like Matt's. "Hunt of a Lifetime" would give terminally ill children the chance to embark on an outdoor hunting or fishing adventure. As the end of the year approached, I prayed and asked God to show me that this was his will, not mine. All I wanted for Christmas that year was a sign from God that I was doing the right thing.
On Christmas Eve, while we were preparing for our first holiday without Matt, the phone rang. The voice on the other end explained that his 14-year-old godson needed our help. A few days after the boy had received his hunter's safety certification, he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Instead of enjoying his first buck harvesting, he was enduring the ravages of surgery and chemotherapy. Could we help him with his dreams and prayers? The boy's name was Matthew Riley. God had granted me the most precious gift that day. He had sent me another "Matthew" in order to understand that mine was in good hands and that Matthew's legacy would never be forgotten. - Tina Pattison
If anyone is looking a great charity to make a donation to, "Hunt for a Lifetime" is one of my favorits
By: Tina Pattison
My beautiful, sweet Matthew was diagnosed with a cancer that most of the time is curable, but not in his case. He had a rare type that multiplied faster than normal.
The treatments were harsh and I prayed to God that there might be a way for me to ease my boy's suffering. After a second bout in February 1998, Matthew underwent a stem cell transplant. As I waited for the procedure to come to a close, I once again turned my thoughts to God and His comforting embrace. I prayed that this treatment would be the end, that his doctors would, come to me and smile and tell me that the cancer was gone. What I prayed for most was the will to be strong for both myself and Matthew, to stand as a pillar for the both of us when Matthew was too weak to even sit up in bed. I prayed the prayer that every mother prays when she is in this wretched situation I prayed that there might be some way to ease my son's pain.
During this time, I would sit by Matthew's bedside, gently stroking his arm with my finger, and we would talk about "dreams" - mine and his. I asked him what he would like to do in the future, blocking out of my mind how difficult a Word like "future" can be when it is so uncertain. Matthew's forehead wrinkled for only a moment as he thought of what he wanted to do most in the world. He looked at me with eyes that were for that moment not those of a dying child, but those of a boy who wished for adventure - outside of the sterile confinement of a hospital room. He said, "Hunt moose with Dad." They had hunted together since Matt was a boy.
But a big game hunt like Matt imagined would cost close to $ 10,000. With six children including one being tested for muscular dystrophy, it was far more than we could afford.
So, I contacted a wish granting organization. I had been told that they were devoted to making the dreams of terminally ill children come true, and I thought that they might be our best hope. In a rush of words and raw emotion I told the person who answered my call about Matthew's wish. The silence on the other end of the line stretched on for what seemed like an eternity before I was told that they were terribly sorry, but that they no longer fulfilled requests for hunting and unfortunately since Matthew was past his eighteenth birthday, he was no longer eligible for a wish of any kind.
Trembling and heartbroken, I wiped at the tears rolling down my face and wondered who would be able to help make Matthew's wish come true. Desperate, I called a list of outfitters and, after many agonizing and painful phone calls, we finally received a call from Clayton Grosso, an outfitter in Nordegg, a tiny village in Alberta, Canada. He told me that his wife Hilda had lost her right arm to cancer several years before and they both were so deeply touched by Matthew's story that they knew they must do everything in their power to provide him with a hunt. They assured us that everything would be taken care of at no cost to us! But as the October hunt neared, Matt's platelet count dipped dangerously low. His doctor warned him not to go on the trip. Matt just looked at him and said, ''I'm going and that's all there is to it." He knew that it was one of those dreams that wouldn't come around again. He knew it could be his last shot.
When my husband Chet and Matt arrived in Nordegg, they were shocked by what Clayton and Hilda had done. The two had told friends and neighbors about Matt and asked for help. The compassionate citizens of Nordegg went beyond anything I could imagine in their desire to do something for my son.
The town of 68 people graciously chipped in to cover the costs of the hunt. A helicopter pilot offered a free ride into the mountains. A local lodge gave them free housing and grocery stores provided the food. A feed store even gave them grain for the horses. And because Matt's blood had lost its clotting capabilities from the chemotherapy, Clayton's daughter-in-law, a licensed paramedic, took off a week from work and went along in case of any medical problems.
On their first day, Matt and Clayton's son Gene, a professional hunting guide, spotted a huge bull moose. With two shots, Matt dropped the bull in its tracks. Chet's eyes filled with pride and the realization that our son had fulfilled his dream.
For the rest of their stay, Matt and Chet enjoyed the hospitality of the Grosso family and the people of Nordegg. I will never forget the joy that these kindhearted family brought to my son. They treated Matt as more than just a stranger in need-they treated him as though he were family. They opened their homes and even shared a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner with Matt and Chet.
The fulfillment of his wish had a miraculous effect on Matt. Day by day, he grew healthier and stronger until one day God answered our prayers and told us that Matt was free and clear. He enjoyed a great season hunting for small game and deer, and had a fresh new outlook on fife. He never forgot the kind angels who helped him. During the Christmas holidays he talked about his plans of going to Canada to help Clayton, as a way of saying "thank you" to the Grossos for everything they had done.
Then in February on his six month check-up, my heart broke once again. The doctors discovered that the cancer was back and it was spreading quickly through his body. On April 28, 1999, six months after his hunting trip in Nordegg, God took Matt into his embrace.
After his passing, I decided to start a foundation that would fulfill dreams like Matt's. "Hunt of a Lifetime" would give terminally ill children the chance to embark on an outdoor hunting or fishing adventure. As the end of the year approached, I prayed and asked God to show me that this was his will, not mine. All I wanted for Christmas that year was a sign from God that I was doing the right thing.
On Christmas Eve, while we were preparing for our first holiday without Matt, the phone rang. The voice on the other end explained that his 14-year-old godson needed our help. A few days after the boy had received his hunter's safety certification, he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Instead of enjoying his first buck harvesting, he was enduring the ravages of surgery and chemotherapy. Could we help him with his dreams and prayers? The boy's name was Matthew Riley. God had granted me the most precious gift that day. He had sent me another "Matthew" in order to understand that mine was in good hands and that Matthew's legacy would never be forgotten. - Tina Pattison
If anyone is looking a great charity to make a donation to, "Hunt for a Lifetime" is one of my favorits
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