Family Stories 3

As I mentioned earlier, I'll occassionally use this space to chronicle some of my reflections and writings on my family history, particulary the stories that my grandpa Coleman passed down to us. Here's the third part of that journey, some of the stories about life in Fayette County WVa. Interestingly enough, Grandpa speculates that Henry Whitfield Dooley passed away at the Battle of the Wilderness; David echoes this thought, and pins the exact location as Spotsylvania VA.

Grandpa Dooley bought a farm when he moved to the Salem area which was near Oak Hill in Fayette County, West Virginia. He bought it from a man who had bought it from another man when it was sold to pay a debt. The folks that lived on the next farm over were in this family and their uncle had lost the land by letting it get delinquent in property taxes. This was a family we had problems with many times...

Now Nathan Coleman, my dad, met the father of the family from next door up on the main road, and they had an argument up there, and then the man came on down the road that came right by our house. My Mom (Eleanor Mae Dooley Coleman) was standing out on the porch and, incidentally, she was holding my baby sister Lula, in her arms. Well, as he walked by he looked up on the porch and he said, “Eleanor, I found out that you people can’t keep me from coming on your land to cross over to my land, so just crack your whip.” Now my Mom just turned around and put Lula in a barrel for clothes that we kept out on the porch, and then she reached back behind the kitchen door and picked up a single barrel shot gun. Now to be honest, I can’t tell you if it was loaded or not, but she grabbed it and ran out to the side of the house with the shot gun in her hand. Well, when this man saw her he told his mule, “Get up, mule!” and they went right on past and down the road to their lane.

Eleanor and Mollie Dooley, @1908- In front is Eleanor's daughter Decima, James Emmet Coleman's Sister

Now that was the very last time any of that family came around our property. They always went on around another way which was longer, but they didn’t come around causing trouble any more. As I recall, my Mom was so mad that she forgot what she had done with Lula. She went into the house, and looked all over for her. If Lula hadn’t started crying, she never would have remembered where she was.....in the clothes barrel!

Incidentally, to turn our cattle out to graze, you had to go over the very corner of this family’s property, and the old man had put a lock on the gate. Now the lane was on another family’s land, and they gave permission to my dad to build a fence on their land, so the cattle could go out to graze without going on the other family’s land at all!

Well sir, great Grandpa Henry Whitfield Dooley was a Confederate solder and he had come home because his wife, Mary Elizabeth Hastings Dooley was soon to have their baby (who later became my Grandpa George Whitfield Dooley). Incidentally, this was the same Henry Dooley who helped the Hastings family “get some fire”.

Well the “home guards”, so-called Union sympathizers, came to the Dooley house and said they were going to arrest Henry. But when the men came up to the gate, Henry’s mother grabbed up an old rifle that was there and said she would shoot the first man that came through the gate----and not one man came through. Great Grandpa went up the stairs, climbed out a window, hopped onto the kitchen section of the roof, jumped off of the kitchen roof, and ran to where his horse was tied up nearby. Then he rode away and managed to escape. Now someone he knew saw him in Lewisburg and brought word back to Mary and the family that he was OK. And that message was the very last thing that was ever heard of Henry Whitfield Dooley.

I do know that his outfit was in the Battle of the Wilderness, now whether he got back to them or not, I don’t know; however, this battle was one of the worst battles of the Civil War. It was fought in very dry woods, and forest fires started. Many men died because they were wounded and were burned up in those terrible forest fires. Another possibility is that he was killed before he ever got back to his unit either by a Union soldier, or by someone that wanted his horse. He had a very fine horse that everyone wanted, so he may have been killed before he ever got back to his outfit because someone wanted his horse.

Great Grandma, Mary Hastings Dooley, waited seven years, and then had him officially declared dead. It is recorded at the Monroe West Virginia. County courthouse, and I have seen the document. She then later married a man by the name of Isaac Rogers.

Now, Grandpa George Dooley’s sisters were all married and since he was the youngest of the children he still lived at home, in Kanawha County West Virginia. George and his step father, Mr. Isaac Rogers, did not get along and incidentally, where Grandpa George Dooley worked they shipped the coal by barges on the Kanawha River. Anyway, the mine that he worked in was three or four miles up from home and because it had started to rain one day as he left work, he hopped on a boxcar to ride home. Since it was raining harder, he just stayed on, riding in the boxcar and he wound up in Cincinnati, Ohio. He enlisted there in the United States standing Army. There was no war going on at that time and he went to Fort Laramie, Wyoming.

Now several years ago I was at that Fort and I made it a point to go into every barracks. It is most likely possible that of the five barracks there, all of which were there at the time Grandpa Dooley was there, I was in his, and saw where he slept.

Now when I was older, my Grandpa George Dooley had been killed in the mines but my Grandma Dooley told me this story about when Grandpa was at Fort Laramie. The sergeant in charge took the men down to a nearby Indian village. He told them that while they were there under no circumstances were they to start any trouble. If they gave you food, you were to eat it, and eat it all. Well now, the men had a little white dog that was their company’s mascot. They tied him up, so he could not follow them down to the Indian village, because everyone knew that Indians ate dogs.

Well the next day when they left, the little dog broke loose and followed them after all but they had gone too far to go back, so they all said they would watch him carefully. After they had been at the village for a while, the little dog disappeared and later they heard a dog “yelp”. Now all the Indians stood around looking at the solders with scowls on their faces. Everyone sat around and waited and the sergeant quietly reminded them that they must do whatever they were told. Finally a really big fat squaw brought out a large kettle of stew. Now the men all had brought their own spoons, so they started to eat the stew. It was hard, as they kept thinking about the poor little dog. Afterwards they got up to leave, and as they marched out they looked over and here came the little white dog! The men all looked back at the village and all of the Indians were laughing up a storm-- especially the squaw. She was sitting flat on the ground with her legs out straight, bending over laughing so hard she had begun to cry. Well, all of the solders knew for sure that they “had been had.”

More on the New River

From 'cousin' David Fridley, at the site I mentioned yesterday

Here's my take: Saying Goodbye, Part 3

Here's his visit from 2004: A Trip Back In Time

See? I told you it was an amazing place...

More resources

Please note that on the left column, I've added a link to the Clan Strachan (Strawn) society. Great resource for information about our family roots.

Additionally, this site is a source of lineage for the descendants of Henry Whitfield Dooley (mentioned earlier).

More links as I find them...

What's this all about?

Welcome-
This is the second blog I've attempted, and is one that will not be published on Google. So, if you found it, you must have been looking... :)

On my other site, I'd done quite a bit of writing/thinking about my family of origin. Some of this was due to the passing of my grandfather, some of this was just due to the season of life I've been in for a while, and some was due to our getting ready to adopt in the (not to distant) future.

What I realized, judging from the traffic, was that there were a group of people who wanted to read family stuff (mostly my relatives, duh) and that other regulars were more interested in the random faith/culture/higher education/sports things that I would post.

So, welcome to an attempt to dissect my life even further.

What I'll mostly be posting on here in the coming days/months are things moved over from the old site; thoughts about my family, my grandfather's funeral, etc. As time progresses, this will eventually end up being the place that I write about our adoption process.

Feel free to comment... If you're here, you're probably family and should be a part of this story.

Thanks for dropping by...

Saying Goodbye, Part 4- Making Sense of It All

It's been a while since I wrote about my trip to West Virginia... Life happens, right?

Earlier, I wrote that:

When my grandpa finally moved in with my parents, I knew it was the "end of an era" in some ways. I imagined that I would never get a chance to go back, and had made peace with that. I convinced myself that I was a different person, I had different values, and I had left behind the Chuck who needed to find solace in the simpler ways and slower pace of the New River Gorge. I had made new friends, I had gained education and wisdom, I had discovered other mountains... Things had changed.

And now, I find myself preparing to get on a plane to fly over those mountains and then drive up those roads. Honestly, I'm somewhat afraid of what I'll find- not that the mountains or rivers ever change, but that I'll be confronted with how much my life has changed since I was 10. Some, I'm sure, will be positive things- my wife will be visiting with me, for instance- but there's also an echo of who I thought I would be and what I believed would be resonating through my life that I'll have to come face to face with.

I think that, ultimately, my trip back reminded me of who I am and what has formed me. As much as I'd like to pretend that I'm a self made person, that I'm not one of "those people from the midwest" ('red state people', they're also called in California. Nope, not a compliment), that I've somehow elevated myself 'past' all of it, the truth is that these things still run deep in my heart and in my mind. I find myself saying to Carrie, "I'm so my dad right now...", only to hear her say "And your grandpa. And that's not a bad thing".

So, I've been doing a little navel gazing lately- you know, "the unexamined life is not worth living", and all that stuff. Part of this is due to the autobiographies that Carrie and I are working on for our adoption process, part of this is due to the trip to WVa, part of it is mid life crisis or search for meaning, and part of this is due to a book I've recently read (go figure).

Entitled "Born Fighting: How the Scots-Irish Shaped America", it traces the history of my 'people' (Colemans are Scots-Irish, Strawns are Scottish). It talks about how this group of poor, family centered, Europeans were formed by opposition to the Romans, the Normans, and the English; how they were used by the English monarchy and later the American colonial elite as a barrier and shield for political power. The author points to this group as being foundational to the populist movement of Andrew Jackson that ultimately established and reinforced one of the things that I am most frustrated about in American Culture- the ethos of rugged individualism.

It also goes on to discuss the pre and post Civil war realities for these people; that few, if any, owned slaves (in fact were negatively impacted by the plantation system), that they fought on both sides of the war for reasons centering around autonomy and freedom, and that they suffered most drastically from the reconstruction policies that took what little they had from them. This latter section also talked about how much of the racism that exists in these people's lives today comes from once again being used by persons in power to serve as a buffer between the southern elite and the newly freed African Americans, when the reality is that both SI and AA had a shared socio-economic experience in the post Civil War south and midwest.

Again, not everything in this book resonates with me; the author's family comes from Arkansas and Oklahoma, while our families are rooted in the border states of Indiana, West Virginia, Ohio, and Kentucky. But, given where I am in life, it was a timely read, and I would strongly recommend it.

Back to "Making Sense of It All"... remember when I wrote

I'm looking forward to hearing the sound of rushing water that also has served as a soundtrack for my life. That's one of the distinctives that I remember about our visits to WVa.- even on the drive up, you can't help but notice all of the waterfalls (important things for a kid from the flatlands of the MidWest). Given that the Appalachian mountains are some of the oldest in the world, and that the New River may be older than the Nile, there is a sense of permanence and depth. The water is there, has been there, will be there; pouring, splashing, nourishing, carving, shaping everything in the state. And, in some way, it has nourished and shaped me as well.

Well, I've been haunted by two photos lately.
The first is from my favorite place along Wolf Creek, and was taken during one of my Spring Break trips in college. Those of you that know me know that I keep this in my office for "serenity now" moments- it reminds me of a very peaceful afternoon in my life.
The second is a close up taken from the same spot, but last month. As you can see the water has been stopped by boulders and logs that have fallen in place due to flooding in the past 15 years or so.
But the reality is that the water has not been stopped, that it has merely found another way to the New River downstream. And that's where I find myself- my path has changed, has been blocked in some ways, and who I am and what I'm called to be flows on.

The questions, then, are as much about 'where is this going?' as 'where did this come from?'. And, as I get ready to be in a position where I will be raising up a new generation of Strawns, these questions become more and more important.

So, I'm going to continue to collect my thoughts, post stories about my grandfather, and write about my family. Since this will be a divergence from the usual ramblings about Higher Ed, Faith and Culture, Sports, and stupidity, I'll be sure to label each of these writings as a part of the "Heritage Series", so you can skip them if you so desire.

Thanks for reading...

Family Stories 2

As I mentioned earlier, I'll occassionally use this space to chronicle some of my reflections and writings on my family history, particulary the stories that my grandpa Coleman passed down to us. Here's the second part of that journey, tracing how the Dooley family was formed and how they came into what is now West Virginia from Virginia around the time of the Civil War. As my grandpa would tell it...

This story starts in the state of Virginia, possibly Bedford County. There was a family by the name of Hastings and this was in the early 1830s. It was in the spring of the year, and Mr. Hastings owned property over in Monroe County, Virginia (incidentally, this is now in West Virginia). He left home for a few days to go over and check on the property, and had to take the tinderbox and things with him to be able to start a fire to cook.

There were 2 girls in the family; Mary was about 10 and Martha was about 8. There was a younger child also, but I don’t remember if it was a boy or a girl. Anyway, Mr. Hastings had been gone several days, and Mrs. Hastings took the children out in the field to hunt for greens since they grow very profusely in the spring of the year. They stayed longer than they meant to, and when they got home, they found that the fire at home was burned out. Mrs. Hastings got a kettle, and told the girls, Mary and Martha, to go down to Mr. Dooley’s place to get some fire to start their fire again.

When Mary and Martha got there, Mr. Dooley’s fire was low, and it was getting late, so Mr. Dooley called his son, Henry Whitfield Dooley, to come in. He gave him a flint, steel, and tinderbox and said for him to go back home with the girls and build them a fire. He told him to stay at the Hastings place, chop wood, and be a help until Mr. Hastings returned home.

So that is what Henry Dooley did.

Later, that same Henry Dooley married the little girl, Mary Hastings. They were my great grandparents: my mother‘s (Eleanor Mae Dooley Coleman) grandparents on her father’s side.

There is more of the family story, about my mother’s grandparents on her mother’s side of the family--William Poff, and "Talithacumi" Scott; yes that was really her first name! (from Mark 5:41, meaning “Little girl, get up!”- Ed.)

Back many years before, Mr. Poff’s father was a trader and traveled the out woods of Virginia; he would buy, sell and trade and also get furs etc. Typically, he would stop at one family’s home to stay all night, and then would leave the next morning. Later on some folks came to visit the Poff family and asked where the senior Mr. Poff was; they had seen him earlier and could not understand why he was not back home yet. Well, they began to check and trace his path back, and they traced him up to the home where he had stayed all night but they couldn’t find out where he was after that. Finally one of the sons of the family where he stayed told what had happened. He admitted that he and his brother had robbed Mr. Poff, hit him in the head and threw him over the hill. Then, as they headed home after a day‘s work of clearing their land, they saw Mr. Poff alive and trying to revive himself down by the creek. They went down and “did him in” --for good that time.

Now these two sons were hung for that crime, and the younger of the three sons who had talked was locked away. Well sir, on the day when they had the hanging there was a big crowd, and the boys father went up to see his sons be hanged. It is told that he bought a bunch of cookies and then he sat in his wagon eating the cookies as he watched his sons hanging. Afterwards, he drove off with their bodies in the back of his wagon, still eating the cookies...

Well, the younger Mr. Poff married a woman whose name was Lee and they had 2 children--Alfred and Mary. This first wife died and Mr. Poff married Talithacumi Scott. Now her father, Mr. Scott, was a doctor and also a preacher. About this time the Civil War began, and Mr. Scott and Mr. Poff were both pro-Union and anti-slave. The Confederate Army wanted Mr. Scott to serve as a doctor for them, and Mr. Poff, who was a saddle maker, to serve also. They needed them badly, but since both men refused to go, they were arrested and put in Libby prison in Richmond, Virginia. Both managed to escape, and cross the mountains over into the state of West Virginia, because it was in Union hands. Talithacumi Scott Poff, her mother (Mrs. Scott), and Talithacumi's 3 sisters, Esmeralda, Louise, and Eleanor loaded a wagon and left for West Virginia, because they had heard that their husbands were there. As they were leaving in the covered wagon, a black woman rushed out and handed them her infant boy and asked them to take him with them to freedom. (I met him once when I was a very little boy. I also have a picture of the family he stayed with, and he is in the picture). Talithacumi Scott Poff also had a child whose name was Louise Emmet Poff (my grandmother, who was named after Talithacumi’s sister, and a Dr. Emmett).

Family Photo– Date unknown
Woman on far left marked with X is Louise Emmet Poff Dooley, Emmet Coleman’s grandmother. Man on far right, holding child, is the infant handed to the Poff Family on their trek over the mountains, into what is today the state of West Virginia.

So they started off to West Virginia and they were driving along somewhere on the side that was still under Confederate control, and Esmeralda rode on ahead to see if she could find a store. Now Esmeralda was a large, big woman--not fat, but just big boned and tall. Well, when she got back to where they were camping, there were a bunch of civilian men there causing trouble with the women. Esmeralda had a drover’s whip that she used, and she lit in on the men and whipped them for a mile or more out of camp. The story goes that she was really good with that whip and she could cut a button off of a man’s shirt without hurting him. So she really let those men have it good.

The women went on and later they came upon a Confederate outpost and the man in charge there gave the women a good conduct pass. He wrote on it “I will personally hang anyone who molests these women”, and he signed it. The women continued on their way and later came upon a Union outpost. They showed the commanding officer the note and he turned it over and wrote the same thing on the other side, signed it and gave it back to them. Boy, wouldn’t I like to have that note! My grandmother DID see it.

They traveled on down to the New River at Cotton Hill, in Fayette County West Virginia, and camped there for 2 weeks waiting for the river to go down enough for them to cross. They then went on down through Kanawha County and down to Mason County near the Ohio River where they stayed. When the war was over, Mr. Poff came home to Mason County West Virginia, as well as Dr. Scott. Dr. Scott had damaged his eyes and was now blind. He could still preach, but could not practice medicine any longer.

Incidentally, another interesting thing is that Dr. Scott had a friend whose name was Dr. Emmett. Dr. Emmett’s family established the Emmett Hospital in Clifton Forge, Virginia, and it is still in existence. Now Dr. Emmett’s wife was named Louise, and my grandmother was named after her-- Louise Emmet Poff. And then when I was born, there were lots of James and George Coleman’s so I became James Emmet (with one “T”) Coleman.

Also when I was born, my mother, Eleanor Mae Dooley Coleman, had only carried me 6 months. Now it is difficult even today for a 6 month infant to live without all the medical advances and machines. Well, the day I was born, my mother almost died and they thought I was not going to make it, so the doctor just handed me over to someone. Now thankfully my grandma Coleman took over. I was so premature and also had yellow jaundice---they said I looked like I had yellow paint on me. But she took over and kept me alive until Mom was better. They said I was born in the hardest rain storm in the Kanawha valley history, and they had to keep moving Mom’s bed all over the place to keep the rain from leaking in all over her while she was in labor having me.

Family Values

For those of you who are wondering, Carrie and I are working on our family. Before you get too weirded out, you should know that we have, after a lot of prayer, decided to adopt a child from Ethopia.

We are just in the beginning stages (read-"filling out a lot of paperwork"), but wanted to give you some information about our decision.

This is the organization that we will be working with: Adoption Advocates International

Here's a NY Times article about the orphanage that AAI works with, the Layla House: What will become of Africa's AIDS orphans?

This is a really awesome slideshow about Ethiopia from another organization: Adopting from Ethopia

Here's a recent KCAL CBS news story on Ethiopian adoption: Out of Africa (you may need to select the video link) Of course, it is "sensational journalism" at its finest.

Please keep us in your prayers in the coming months...

Happy Mother's Day

Sorry so late... But my mom was late in delivering me, so I figured it all balances out.

Here's what it would look like if Scott and I tried to take a nice photo for mom on her special day.

Nothing but the best for you, Mom...

Who's a proud uncle?

"Skeeter" at 4 months

Kids' got more hair than me...

Happy Birthday...

A couple of days late-
Jalen James Cole Anderson was born to Sara Strawn and Julius Anderson on Sunday, May 7 (one day later and all of Sara's kids would have had the same birthday).

Mom is doing well after a long and difficult labor; JJC has a slight heart murmor, and could use your prayers.

Saying Goodbye, Part 3

A lot more photos than words today... Carrie did a great job (it's a Shike thing)

First, some photos from the overlook at the New River Gorge Bridge state park, where we went with Tim, Diane, and Moriah on Saturday after the funeral.
This is another shot of the bridge- from the river, the Washington monument and 2 Statues of Liberty could fit underneath, with 20 ft to spare until the arch.
The gorge itself.
Tim, Diane, and Moriah.
Carrie and Moriah.
Also after the funeral, we drove to Babcock state park, home of the most photographed grist mill in the world (who tracks these things?)
When I was a child, my brothers and I used to climb around these rocks and waterfalls when we would visit with Grandpa. Please note how dry I am.
Here, not so much. Don't ask.
Carrie and I at the mill.
On Sunday, Carrie and I drove down to the New River to explore. Living in Seattle and Malibu, I had forgotten how green the first buds and leaves of spring were.
Wisteria in the hills.
Red Bud trees in bloom.
Butterflies.
A view of the bridge from below. In the distance, you can see the crest of the Fayette Station rapids, a class III-IV rapid that my grandfather inadvertantly swam through one summer day when he got too far out into the current.
A closer view of the rapids.
While we were there, we got to watch the skills of a whitewater guide from Class VI, my favorite outfitter.
Another shot, cresting the wave. We talked to this rafter afterwards and found out that he was the son of the guide that led three of my previous trips, and who let me guide our boat through an easier class III. Carrie and I are hoping to go back sometime in October for a rafting trip.
Carrie is not that impressed by the river's power. As for me, I could have sat by the banks and listened to the roar for hours.
Next, we went up the gorge a bit to Wolf Creek, one of my favorite places in the world.
Carrie and I, on our way out of the gorge. As I mentioned earlier, and as these photos show, waterfalls shape this state and my memories of it. Here are just a few that I will always cherish:
At Babcock state park.
Along the gorge.
At Wolf Creek.
Cathedral Falls, at the bottom of the Gauley Mountain drive from Charleston to Oak Hill. As a child, this was the gateway to my visits to Grandma and Grandpa's house. For Scott, this was the time to start faking carsickness so he could sit up front with my parents. Not that I'm bitter or anything...

Next in this series- Making sense of it all.

Saying Goodbye, Part 2

This posting will probably be more photos than commentary...

Saturday morning began with Tim and I going over to the church to help carry the casket in for the ceremony. It was a bit awkward, but only because the other pallbearers were in their suit and ties, while we had just come over in our jeans and t-shirts. It was good to see pastor Ralph Shupe at the church, but I couldn't get over the "what are you wearing?" look that I got... we probably only got away with it because of the grief thing.

After going back to shower and change, Carrie and I re-arrived at the church for the viewing. Mom and Dad had brought a number of Grandpa's favorite things and set up a display table as people came in.

Grandpa looked "good" (what does that mean- when I look good, do I look dead?) in his military uniform, and he had chosen a beautiful casket (although the eagle motif was a bit weird). I will admit that it was difficult to come face to face with him in this setting, but it did not impact me as deeply as I had imagined. Perhaps I was OK with him going home. I also placed "PeePa's hat" into the casket for him to take home... I'll relay that story some other time.
In the two hours of the reception, one of the more unique aspects is that we were able to reconnect with a number of our very distant relatives. With my mother being an only child, we really only knew those friends of hers who lived around Oak Hill. However, last summer there was a Coleman family reunion in Charleston that both mom and Grandpa went to. Since then, folks have done a bit better job at staying in touch, and many came to the funeral.
This is my great aunt Lula and her daughter Loretta. Those of us who had not seen her in a while were all amazed at how similar she looked to Grandpa. My great aunt Rae (Grandma Coleman's sister) also came to the service, and seeing her and aunt Lula next to each other was like looking at the past- the similarieties to their sibling were striking.

During the viewing, my father had created a powerpoint with some of the pictures and stories from the book that was created. It was good to hear people talk about how they appreciated learning more about his life.
The service started at 1:00, and was an amazing testimony to my grandfather's faith. The people of the church went all out to talk about his life with them, and the music represented his favorite hymns. Again, it was a trip down memory lane just to be able to connect with some of these people who had been a part of my childhood- not only do I have the Jones Avenue Church choir in the memories of church with my grandparents, but they are in my life soundtrack due to my grandmother's playing of the tapes and albums the choir had recorded. To this moment, I can pick Lawrence Wood's voice out of a crowd.

I was asked to speak and sing what has now become our family funeral song- "Great is Thy Faithfulness". I talked a bit about how I had often said that I was who I was because of the example of my grandfather. I said that this was not completely accurate- that I could only hope to be the man of God that my grandfather was.

Pastor Bradley (pastor during the 80's) spoke about my grandfather being a soldier in all ways- his faithful service, his steadfast witness, his integrity. He talked about his role in the "Lord's army", and how he had now gone onto his heavenly reward. Pastor Shupe spoke about Grandpa's relationship with grandma, and reminded us that they were now together. My father prayed the benediction, and reminded people that Grandpa was who he was because of his hope in Christ. He even invited people to accept the Lord and be assured of this same hope. Given that he had lost three parents in the last year and a half, I was impressed with his ability to to present the good news in such a powerful way.
For the recessional, the organ and pianist played an old Church of God hymn- "I'm Going On". Carrie and Tim were unfamiliar with this, and were somehow convinced that the song was "The Farmer In The Dell". Yup- those are my family.

Once we got to the cemetery, things became more emotional (at least for me). Grandpa's casket was draped in the flag, and we were greeted at the gravesite by the honor guard. Pastor Shupe said a prayer and read scripture, and then turned it over to the military. They began with "Roll call", where the senior officer called every person's name and rank, and those servicemen present replied "here, Sergeant". I thought that this was normal protocol, until he called "Master Sergeant James Emmit Coleman". Obviously there was no response. He called this name again, and a serviceman produced and presented a helmet with a camoflage cover. The senior officer called again, and no response led to the helmet being placed atop a rifle that had been stuck into the ground by its bayonet.
Next came the three volleys from the honor guard. This used to be my grandfather's role- to call these ceremonies when other servicemen were buried. After the funeral, they gathered the spent casings to present to my mom, although I cannot imagine what she will do with them. This was followed by a rendition of 'taps', which was too good to be live (Dad and I talked later about the recording and the player that the serviceman had hidden in the bell of his intrument).
Finally, the flag was removed from the casket and folded. The servicemen presented it to a young woman who was standing in full uniform near the gravesite. She then took it to my mother and presented it with the words "On behalf of my family and a greatful nation..." Turns out that she was a neighbor of my grandfather who had been in Junior ROTC in highschool because of his influence on her life. Let the record show that this is when I broke down.
We then went back to the church, where (in good ChoG tradition) there was a pitch-in dinner of gastronomic challenges. Cheesecake, cake cake, various and sundry casseroles... oh the joys of church food. There are no calories in Christian charity, right?

Next- visiting the wild, wonderful part of West Virginia.

Saying Goodbye

I want to write about our trip to WVa in four sections- This first one will cover Friday while we were in Oak Hill alone, and the second will have details about the funeral day. The next two will cover our days of exploring Fayette County and the New River Gorge, and then some overall thoughts (follow up for this).

Our flight to Charleston was uneventful, with the exception of the LA terminal (go figure). Because we were flying out on US Air, we were in the same terminal with Southwest- so it was a cattle call from the startup: line out the door, line through the security screening, all taking about 35 minutes. And, since we were carrying on, that was even more of a hassle.

Once we got to the gate, we sat and waited and waited and waited... Finally I decided to go to the gate to see what the timing was for boarding, only to discover that they had been boarding for a while (Thank you LAX sound system). We got on the plane as they were closing things up, and had no room for our garment bag (all the overhead bins already filled, including two guitars). The flight attendant said that they could check it for us, and I let them know that it was a suit and dress that we needed for a funeral. I was assured there would be no problems.

So, of course you know what occurred- no problems through Charlotte (where they have rocking chairs in the terminals), but when we get to Charleston our bag was gone. I was working on the rental car (Toyota Avalon for $19 a day- thank you priceline), and Carrie went to take care of the luggage fiasco. Luckily, they were able to find the bag (Charleston SC- the gate agent said that checking the bag "never works" for Charleston WVa), and we were on our way to Oak Hill.

After a quick stop at Wendy's (which we would later regret), we drove up the turnpike through the night and got to Oak Hill about 12:15. Checking into the Holiday Inn (a claaaaasssssy place, let me tell you), Carrie started to feel a little queasy. The hamburger that she ate was a bit undercooked, and it felt like it was coming back to haunt her.

Our plan the next morning was that we would go exploring in the area, but Carrie was not feeling well at all. Our luggage was delivered to the HI (thanks, US Air) before noon, but we did not leave to get lunch until 2:00 or so (jet lag and illness). We stopped to get medicine for Carrie (recommended by herr mom), and found ourselves at my grandfather's favorite restaurant- Shoneys. We were hopeful that it would be our only poor dining experience.
The rest of the day was spent low key- we drove to the bridge overlook, and then out to the Summersville dam (start of the Gauley whitewater run, and home to one of my grandfather's favorite stories about the city of Gad). When we ended up back at the hotel, and Carrie took another nap.

When Carrie was finally ready to have dinner, we discussed our options. Initially, we wanted to go to Biscuit World, for a good 'kuntree' meal. Once we arrived, we discovered that it was closed at 8 pm (I guess they only do breakfast). We then drove to Smokeys, a restaurant at my favorite whitewater company, to find that it, too was dark and empty. Going back to Oak Hill, we drove past a couple of places (including Shoneys, but Carrie was not having that twice), and found that 'Cowboys' steakhouse was also closed (out of business). We ended up at Gino's pizza and spaghetti, where we had a terrible calzone and 'church potluck' spaghetti. I guess it was unwise to have Italian food in West Virginia- but all of the greens and possum places were simply not opened. Maybe that's why my grandfather loved Shoneys so much- there were not any other options.

My parents arrived around 10; they had placed Grandpa's casket in the back of a family friend's van and driven it to Oak Hill. That seemed a bit odd to me, but Dad said there were no problems. He even joked about driving through McDonalds- seems like Grandpa didn't really want much to eat.

Next- Funeral day

Poetry Corner

Wait, you're still at the right place- I just wanted to relay a couple of things that were read/sung at my grandfather's funeral on Saturday.

First, a reading from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

A PSALM OF LIFE

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream ! —
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal ;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way ;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !
Be a hero in the strife !

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !
Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act,— act in the living Present !
Heart within, and God o'erhead !

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time ;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate ;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

Finally, the last verse and chorus from the West Virginia State song (of the three they have):

West Virginia Hills

Oh, the West Virginia hills! I must bid you now adieu.
In my home beyond the mountains I shall ever dream of you;
In the evening time of life, If my Father only wills,
I shall still behold the vision of those West Virginia hills

Oh, the hills, beautiful hills, How I love those West Virginia hills!
If o'er sea o'er land I roam, Still I'll think of happy home,
And my friends among the West Virginia hills

Country Roads

Almost heaven, West Virginia
Blue ridge mountains, Shenandoah river
Life is old there, older than the trees
Younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze

Chorus: Country roads, take me home
To the place, I be-long
West Virginia, mountain momma
Take me home, country roads

All my mem'’ries, gather 'round her
Miner's lady, stranger to blue water
Dark and dusty, painted on the sky
Misty taste of moonshine, teardrop in my eye
Chorus
I hear her voice, in the mornin' hours she calls to me
The radio reminds me of my home far a-way
And drivin'’ down the road I get a feelin'
That I should have been home yesterday, yesterday
Chorus

And yes, I know that it's probably bad karma to quote a John Denver song right before flying across the country. Ah well...

When I was a kid, this song was an "anthem" of mine... I can remember singing it at the top of my lungs with the windows down driving across southern Ohio into Gallipolis, across the Ohio, into the West Virginia hills (where we soon rolled up the windows- pig farms and coal burning power stations will do that), through Charleston (Charles town. Cool.) , up Gauley mountain to Fayette County and Oak Hill WVa.

This song brought me comfort and a sense of rootedness- strangely important to a pastor's son who moved to five different places before his seventh birthday. I always knew that somehow, things were OK in WVa. Maybe that's why I spent parts of my childhood summers there, or why I headed into the mountains while all of my college friends headed to the beach for Spring Break. Even in Grad School, four day weekends meant trips to Oak Hill- driving all night, waking up the next day to have three inches of snow on the ground... that's peace.

The last times I was there were all white water rafting related- once as a last ditch effort to redeem and regain a failing relationship, once as a weekend adventure with friends from Chicago, and once as a part of my responsibilities as a youth pastor. But I haven't been back since 1999.

When my grandpa finally moved in with my parents, I knew it was the "end of an era" in some ways. I imagined that I would never get a chance to go back, and had made peace with that. I convinced myself that I was a different person, I had different values, and I had left behind the Chuck who needed to find solace in the simpler ways and slower pace of the New River Gorge. I had made new friends, I had gained education and wisdom, I had discovered other mountains... Things had changed.

And now, I find myself preparing to get on a plane to fly over those mountains and then drive up those roads. Honestly, I'm somewhat afraid of what I'll find- not that the mountains or rivers ever change, but that I'll be confronted with how much my life has changed since I was 10. Some, I'm sure, will be positive things- my wife will be visiting with me, for instance- but there's also an echo of who I thought I would be and what I believed would be resonating through my life that I'll have to come face to face with. And that's on top of saying goodbye to my grandfather; grieving the loss of a friend and mentor while I grieve the loss of dreams and goals.

Carrie and I found out yesterday that we will have all of Friday to ourselves (before my folks get in) to explore, relive, and remember. I'm glad this worked out as it did- I will need the time before I shift into "responsible oldest son" mode.

I'm looking forward to hearing the sound of rushing water that also has served as a soundtrack for my life. That's one of the distinctives that I remember about our visits to WVa.- even on the drive up, you can't help but notice all of the waterfalls (important things for a kid from the flatlands of the MidWest). Given that the Appalachian mountains are some of the oldest in the world, and that the New River may be older than the Nile, there is a sense of permanence and depth. The water is there, has been there, will be there; pouring, splashing, nourishing, carving, shaping everything in the state. And, in some way, it has nourished and shaped me as well.

And I get a feeling that I should have been home yesterday.

Family Stories

Special thanks to all of you who have sent notes or called to say that we're in your prayers. Grandpa was an amazing man, and will be missed. It 'makes sense' that Emmet died on Easter; both because Grandma died on Christmas ('92), but also because James Emmet Coleman looked forward to the resurrection more than anyone that I know. Resurrection Sunday was the perfect day for him to go home.

As some of you may know, my mom and I compiled a series of Grandpa's favorite stories in a little booklet with some photos (both past and present). Since some of you may have only met Emmet, I've decided to put parts of this compilation here over the next few weeks. It certailny is better than most of the other stuff on the internet (or in this blog, for that matter).

This won't be a regular thing... just something that I'll do self indulgently when I need to remember.

Here's the introduction to the collection that I wrote in 2001:

As a child, I can still remember crawling up on my “Pee Paw’s” lap to hear a story– some of those moments even became stories themselves (although thankfully, they have been reserved for another book). I can even now hear him saying, “Well sir….” and winding into an evening of history lessons, family legacy, and memories from his life. The great thing is that I would only have to ask for one story… as you’ll be able to tell in reading these, the plot of one tale would lead to several “Incidentally”s, which were like cracks on a windshield… they just branched out and grew and grew. Before anyone would realize it, the mantle clock would be ringing bedtime, and my brothers and I would have to head upstairs for the night. As frustrating as that was (the end of the stories as well as our bedtime), we could always rely on another journey along the Panama Canal Zone, or the ‘Hollers’ or the shores of the Galapagos Islands for the next night.

As I grew older, these stories became even more important– as I would go with Grandpa to meet some of the people in them, and hear them verified; or as I would tell them myself during college late-nighters when we would talk about our families. There was something about these accounts that drew me home– and I looked forward to my Spring Break visits to West Virginia as a place to re-connect and find solace. This simpler time is one that many today seem to long for; and in some of these stories I hope they can find it.

One of the many things I remember about my grandmother is her gift in quilt making– taking scraps of fabric and sewing them into beautiful and warm heirlooms for family and friends. My grandfather, I guess, created quilts too– of words and stories, random bits of humor and heritage, sewn together in a way that continues to bring warmth to the people he loves.

Go Rest High

James Emmet Coleman

July 23, 1909 - April 16, 2006

I know your life on earth was blessed
And you knew both joy and pain
Weren't afraid to speak the Gospel
Faithfulness through sun and rain

Go rest high on that mountain
Son your work on earth is done
Go to heaven a-shoutin'
Love for the Father and the Son

Oh how we cried that day you left us
Now we gather 'round your grave to grieve
Wish I could see the angel's faces
When they hear your sweet voice sing

Go rest high on that mountain
Son your work on earth is done
Go to heaven a-shoutin'
Love for the Father and the Son

Go to heaven a-shoutin'
Love for the Father and the Son

Happy Birthday...

Charles Willard Strawn. (no, not the one in Illinois. The one in San Jose)

Born at 5:08 AM Pacific time, "Skeeter's" real name comes from both of his grandfathers and his dad (Willard is Scott’s middle name). He checks in at 9-ish pounds and 21 inches long.

Yet another Strawn in the world. Consider yourselves warned.