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.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
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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