Prayers and Works (Part 3)

As I sped across the state of Pennsylvania toward the town of Somerset, I prayed. My current mission was to rehabilitate an ancestral home that had been in our family since 1921. The most pressing concern was a three-bedroom unit that comprised one-half of the house. The tenants had recently abandoned it and I had to get it whipped back into shape and re-rented. But the whole house needed looking after because the exterior had been neglected for some time.

 

I had some basic renovation skills. I was acquainted with roofing and metal work and knew how to handle a scraper and paint brush, though I was no electrician or plumber and was not particularly skilled at carpentry. Still, I had the gumption. God willing, I would complete the project. This was the object of my prayers; that in this instance I be made one with the Heavenly Will, and that if my instincts were in harmony therewith, that I be made an instrument of Providence in order to be successful in the task-at-hand. 

 

My cousin had recently retired from his job and had moved into the upper unit on the other side of the house. I would be staying with him. (He and his wife had divorced a few years back and his only child—a son, Chris—had already left the nest.) His name was Patrick. He preferred to be called Pat. He was about two years younger than me. I had had sporadic contact with him throughout my life but we didn’t know each other all that well. The son of my mother’s brother, my Uncle Tommy, Pat had endured a chaotic and difficult upbringing. His father and mother just couldn’t get along. Each apparently suffered from mental difficulties (characterized by neurotic obsessions) that worsened an already disastrous marriage. (More on this later.)

 

Besides renovating the recently abandoned apartment and getting a judgment against the former tenants, the other half of my purpose in coming here was to take care of Cousin Pat after he underwent knee replacement surgery. This would mean helping to organize his stuff, fetching groceries, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry and making small improvements around his place. I even made his bed and washed his hair a few times. (He was instructed by the doctor not to bathe for about two weeks after his surgery.)

 

Pat was born in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1956, the third child of four and the only male. His mother taught in the Catholic school system; his father couldn’t seem to hold a steady job. His family history was one of constant turmoil as the parents feuded, split up, reunited, then split up again. He attended a long series of public and private elementary schools as they moved from place to place, together or separately, from Ohio to Latrobe, PA, to Orlando, FL, with Pat finally coming to roost in Silver Spring (then Ellicott City and ultimately Laurel), MD. Here he managed to graduate from high school. He had never laid down roots in any particular place until then.

 

Fresh out of high school Pat landed a job with the American Postal Workers’ Union, where he slaved away for the next 43 years. He retired in 2017. I had helped him move-in to the old family house in Somerset just over a year ago. He had a bum knee and bad back, and had no one lined up to help him to unpack the moving boxes and get things sorted out. So I felt obliged to help him. Despite a chasm of differences between us I felt an affinity for my cousin. I felt the blood bond between us as we slowly went beyond re-acquaintance to actually coming to know one another. It would be a long process that had only just begun when he had moved-in back in April, 2017.

 

As mentioned, motoring my way west, I was also praying. In a tone barely audible to me I cranked out Our Fathers and Hail Marys. After five decades of the rosary, I recited special intentions for family members and friends. (Afterwards I felt a sort of peace descend upon me. It may have been my “imagination” but what is our imagination anyway but a sort of “introspection all aglow”?) By my prayers I sought to softly surrender my soul so that not my will but Thine be done.

 

To my joy, a rough-hewn and well-spoken preacher, Tony Evans, came on the radio as I traveled along. As Tony faded out I was able to pick up a conversation that included a truth teller from The Foundation for Critical Thinking. Then another great preacher came rattling over the radio, the late James Boice, who was one Presbyterian theologian who knew his Bible inside and out. It was great stuff, probably only aired in places such as the Pennsylvania boondocks. The words coming to me from the ether that morning were a real comfort. In fact they were so inspiring I found myself feeling that I was not alone.    

 

It was a Sunday. I soon reached my destination and surveyed the abandoned apartment. A lot of work lay ahead. Not only was there a lot to discard on the first and second floors, the attic and basement were also filled with junk that needed to be removed. I needed help and I had no idea how I would empty the place of assorted heavy furniture left behind, let alone do all the fixing up that needed to be done. I spent the first few days attending to Pat while mulling things over, assessing, planning.

 

The first serendipitous synchronicity occurred on Tuesday morning. Around 9:00 AM I set out for Aldi, a grocery store owned by a company in Germany and one of my favorites. Aldi is now in over 30 states and no one can beat their prices.

 

I got out of my car and was walking toward the door. So was another fellow. By chance we exchanged pleasantries. This led to some light conversation, and as we approached the entrance to Aldi’s the guy mentioned that he was a painter. This grabbed my attention immediately. A painter was exactly what I needed. I looked him over. He was an older fellow, though not quite as old as me, fairly fit-looking and, despite needing a little dental work, there was a competent aura to him. I shot back that I was currently working on a painting project of my own and might he be interested in some work(?). He was. He walked back to his vehicle and retrieved a business card. His name was “Ray” and he was a like a blessed ray of light brightening up my prospects that day.

 

I called him the next morning. He said he was only ten minutes away and would come right over and have a look. When he arrived I told him that the first thing that needed to be done was to empty the place of all of the left behind junk. I then proceeded to take him on a tour of the place from top to bottom, emphasizing that I really needed a hand with some of the heavier stuff. I told him that a roll-off dumpster would be dropped off later in the afternoon. Ray said to call him when the dumpster arrived and he would give me a hand.

 

Later, the dumpster arrived and I called him just after 3:00 PM that Wednesday. He said he would be right over and was bringing a few others to help us. He also said that if they could pick through and keep some of the items that I didn’t even have to pay them. Ray showed up around 3:30 with his son and a friend. Within two hours the great bulk of the refuse was in the dumpster and his son had strapped some select items onto his flatbed trailer.

 

Exhausted and somewhat dumbfounded I took out $40, all that I then had in my wallet, and gave it to them. They then started to discuss how they would divvy up $40 among the three of them. It seemed that divvying up the cash would have been easier if I had given them $60 instead and I told them so. At that point Ray handed the $40 to the other two and said I could just pay him the other $20 the next time we met. I asked him when he thought that would be and he estimated he would be available to do some painting next Tuesday.          

 

I was elated as they pulled out. Over the next six days I would finish cleaning the place up and start prepping all surfaces to be painted. The ceilings were fine. It was only walls, cabinets, doors and trim that needed sprucing up. (I had rented the largest dumpster available: a 30 cu. yd. box and filled it to the brim. The truck driver who picked it up and took it to the local landfill reported back that the contents weighed out at close to a ton and a half. I ended up pulling out over 125 nails, screws, staples and wall anchors from those walls.)

 

The next serendipitous synchronicity occurred that following Tuesday. Anticipating that Ray would follow through with his promise to start painting on this day, I went to the Sherwin-Williams paint store early in the morning to consult with the fellow in there. I spent some time matching colors and trying to estimate just what I would need to get started. I just about had everything picked out when Ray walked in. We hadn’t arranged to meet there—it just happened that way. And it turned out he had an account there. So he told me to put the paint on his account, which reduced my cost by about 30%. Before doing anything else, I put the $20 I owed him in his hand. He then shot out to his truck and worked up a simple contract. His price seemed reasonable and he told me he would begin later that day after he finished up what he was then working on. (Ray also noticed and commented upon the strangeness of these two chance meetings of ours—and he told me later that because I was so forthcoming with the $20 that I had promised him, he knew we would work well together.)

 

I would discover that Ray is a Mennonite. His straw hat might have clued me in; it wasn’t quite Amish but seemed somehow defining. He told me he didn’t drink or swear or take breaks as was common among non-Mennonite workers. It wasn’t long before I saw how, for him, it certainly seemed that work was work. For the next week he showed up early and stayed late until the painting of the apartment was completely finished. And Ray has promised to return next month to help paint the exterior.

 

Other serendipitous synchronicities followed. None were as prominently foregrounded as had  been the case with Ray, but each was mildly startling in its own way.

 

At another point I needed an electrician. A former handyman for the place referred me to Miller Electric Supply, saying the guy there could likely recommend one. (Now “Miller” was the name of our family who had originally purchased the house on which I was working.) Once there, the man behind the counter connected me up to an electrician by the name of “Brian,” which is the same name of a best friend, now deceased, who had been an ace electrician. He turned out to be very competent. He fixed the problem and then some, and at a very reasonable price.

 

I decided to replace an ancient fixture in the kitchen with a stand-alone, base cabinet that I purchased in two pieces from Lowe’s. When I suggested putting a granite top on it, the salesman recommended a granite company about 30 miles away, just over the PA line in Grantsville, MD. I soon headed over there.

When I pulled up the owner was on a smoke break. We hit it off immediately. The showroom even had a baby grand piano and I of course sat right down and knocked off a couple of tunes. After picking out a suitable remnant from which the top could be fabricated I got into further conversation with the owner only to discover that she used to live in the same Maryland neighborhood where I currently reside!  

 

When I needed a plumber, Cousin Pat suggested I try the same thing I did to find an electrician. He said to look under “Plumbing Supply”in the Yellow Pages. And so I did and I was soon heading over there.

It was late on a Friday when I walked in. The owner just happened to be there. Soon after discussing what I needed and telling him where the house was located, he asked me about the owner of the property. Sure enough, he was well-acquainted with my Aunt Janet McGuire on whose behalf I was working. In fact, he was the plumber who had originally installed the boilers in the house and a check valve on the water line between the house and the street. With a big smile on his face he remembered Janet, recalling his conversation with her from long ago and saying that he had since wondered whether she was still around. He readily agreed to go to the house sometime the following week to take care of every plumbing issue that needed attention.

 

The final tradesman I needed was a locksmith. All of the keys to the many deadbolt locks in the units had long since been lost. I wanted one key that would open every lock in the unit for each tenant. On that same Friday I again looked in the Yellow Pages. There were a few locksmiths to choose from. I decided to call one that was located in the small town of Berlin, just outside of Somerset. An appointment was made for 10:00 AM the following Monday. Of all places, the locksmith turned out to be from Thailand, originally. I had visited Thailand about two years prior. We talked about his home country and soon developed a good rapport. He turned out to be a very able and resourceful locksmith. He finished the job the following day with his final bill coming in below his initial estimate!        

 

During my Somerset sojourn I would learn from Pat that Uncle Tommy was convinced that the government was directing “rays” at him and others. This was in the early ‘60s and this belief of his would eventually lead to a six-week stay in the psych ward at Sheppard-Pratt Hospital in Baltimore. It is known that directed microwave and scalar weaponry has now been fully developed. People can be made to “hear voices” and become highly susceptible to suggestion, not to mention being driven crazy. Thus, in retrospect, it could be that my uncle was way ahead of his time. (Incidentally, “mind stalkers” tend to prey on the more powerless in society who would never be taken seriously if they complained or sought professional help.) Then again, he may just have been placed in the loony bin after having been driven crazy by yet another force to be reckoned with.

 

Pat’s mother, Aunt Eleanor, was deathly afraid of spiders. When they lived briefly as a family unit in Florida she would call my Uncle Tommy while he was at work each time she saw one, insisting that he come home immediately and kill it. She saw so many spiders and made so many calls that Uncle Tommy soon lost his job as a purchasing agent for a steel company. (There may be more to that job-loss story—who knows?) But according to this side of the family, it was Eleanor who had driven my Uncle Tommy mad. Disrupting him at work seemed to be her modus operandi. Reportedly, when he worked for Westinghouse in Baltimore she would call him incessantly, threatening to harm the children. It is not difficult to see how any fellow might have had a hard time holding onto a steady job under such pressure.

 

And so, between serendipitous synchronicities and becoming more enlightened about the family history, my Somerset trip was quite a refreshing detour. Things are slower in  Somerset and the folks there are very friendly, courteous and helpful. This is quite a contrast to how people and things are in and around Our Nation’s Capital. I almost hated coming home.

 

Among many other weird tasks while in Somerset, I scraped and painted the rear porch and other exterior areas that were visible to prospective tenants. There seemed to be a thousand and one details to attend to before meeting with the realty agent who will soon be screening applications from prospective tenants.

 

In just over three weeks, I more-or-less finished up what was needed to get the three-bedroom apartment re-rented and returned home. Pat was coming along well. He was getting  physical therapy regularly and was able to drive after about ten days.  He had been using a walker and is expected to transition to a cane soon. In short, the bulk of my job was done. But in another few weeks I would return to do this again. Why?—the tenants in the unit below Pat’s are now being evicted. Their eviction is long overdue. It will be unmerciful and swift, now that I knew the “lay of the land.” And if the past is a prologue to the future, fixing up this second apartment and getting the exterior restored should go swimmingly well. After all, I at least now have the contacts I need and, Lord willing, if the mule don’t die and the crick don’t freeze, all will be well in Somerset once again.

Meaning, Purpose, Spirit (Part 2)

“Serendipitous synchronicity” is a fancy phrase that refers to a “coincidence.” But if, as many say and believe, “there are no coincidences,” then what accounts for the phenomenon?

 

Carl Jung offered an occult, psycho-spiritual explanation—something about an acausal connecting principle, perhaps associated with his theory of archetypal energies.

 

Like it or not, the phrase entered the lexicon. Although at present there is no “serendipitous synchronicity page” on Wikipedia, the phrase is bandied about among many who are researching consciousness and the new paradigm that is moving beyond the status quo “mental-rational trance dance.”

 

In layman’s terms I would say “serendipitous synchronicity” means “a chance coming together, at the same time, of two or more people, events, etc.” The encounter is usually fortuitous, positive—though not always.

 

Scholars like long words because they bloviate, and bloviating is something they do well. In fact one could say that academia is essentially "institutionalized bloviating"; a form of endless recapitulation that ultimately goes nowhere and signifies nothing that has much insight or creativity. (Oops, even this writer apparently engages in a bit of bloviating—why not just say that academics mostly like to hear themselves talk, or write, and by so doing they forever seek to con us?) 

 

Still, the phrase, “serendipitous synchronicity,” decidedly carries a certain cachet. It rolls nicely off the tongue.

 

Long words are composed of phonemes, sounds. As such, they have a music all their own that mesmerizes. And considering that each word (including, e.g., its Latin or Greek prefix and/or suffix) carries an etymological source, the music and meter can beautifully, magically drive meaning in listeners.

 

Put two or three words together to form a phrase and meaning is heightened, perhaps even exponentially. The ears hear, the brain activates, and the heart and soul engage. 

 

When we make meaning we think, feel, intuit. We connect-up, not just with things we already know, but with things we are constantly editing in our minds. In this sense, making meaning is an act of creation; the more meaning we make, the larger is the domain of our world. Our reality bubble will expand (or remain inert), all depending upon how much meaning we make, i.e., how meaningful life is for us.

 

It is not really definitions we are collecting throughout our lives. Rather, it is a coalescing of a sensibility that comes about via cycles of human apprehension. We come to a sense of the world around us that individuates, accordingly, into a sense of a self. That self is an individual but one who is also a part of something larger.

 

Human beings do not come into this world as separate creatures. We are part of a human environment; a landscape of people and things that extends outward like concentric circles from individual=> family=> friends=> community=> town or city=> county=> state or province=> region=> country=> countries of a shared language group=> planet=> solar system=> galaxy=> universe. (It is mind-boggling to note that this model of expanding concentric circles is a space-time model contemplating a physical universe only; it does not even touch upon realms of spiritual growth and maturation inhering both within and beyond such a comprehensive definition of the material world! Finding meaning and purpose, then, can be thought of as being precursors to those realms of Spirit.)     

 

To make meaning is to have meaning in one’s life; to find life meaningful. Each person seeks a meaningful existence, for there is little or no existence without meaning. We seek to have a meaningful interrelationship with the world around us, as opposed to a sensibility exiled into alienation and separation.

 

Meaning, in turn, nourishes purpose. Experiencing a meaningful existence causes us to formulate purpose in our lives. Each of us has an overriding purpose. Our lifetime on Earth seems designed for us to discover just what purpose our lives serve; what are we meant to do while we are in the here and now?—not just what career path we choose (or that chooses us) but what greater part do we play in the unfolding of creation? If creating meaning is itself an act of creation, and many billions of people are always creating meaning, is this not creation-in motion-as-an-unfolding?

 

If each of us has an instrumental part to play in this, then what, pray tell, comprises the greater whole? If we are participating in a great game, a more-than-human drama, then what is it? How did it come about? Where does it take us, not just in our own lifetimes but lifetime-after-lifetime of generation-after-generation?

 

Consider these the acts of making meaning, of finding purpose. Does being human simply revolve around neurons, dendrites and synapses; cognition as explained by “science”? Is poetry just words strung together? Is music just organized sound?

 

No, there is something very miraculous about being a human being, a being capable of ferreting out meaning and purpose, of apprehending and identifying serendipitous synchronicities when they occur; our being cast into a sense of wonderment at the ability to discern and to pick apart our own consciousness. The very phrase, “human being,” refers to a race of creatures, humans, modified by a gerund, being, whose modal sense is a present progressive, present continuous, creation-in-motion.

 

Ah, the wonder that can be fleshed out of words, out of a simple phrase! Wonderment, stupefaction, is real. It points the way to something greater than ourselves, a certain something that we know is there, though we cannot quite explain or grok it. The phenomenon goes beyond our reasoning abilities into the realm of a sort of meta-reason, guided by the soul of each living entity; that spark of Spirit of which we are endowed.

 

To be endowed means: to be “supplied,” or perhaps better said, “a putting into.” Who or what did the supplying, the putting into? Might it be an entity that is beyond our ken, beyond even what we can construe as an conceptual entity we refer to as God? But if we can barely admit to having souls, let alone knowing and becoming familiar with our souls, how can we even begin to know the nature of Spirit? And if Spirit emanates from God, how can we know this emanation of God, let alone God?

 

God is revealed to us via creation—the meaning that we make of the plants, animals and minerals around us; through our human constructions and inventiveness; and the finding of our purpose on Earth (including our overriding purpose).

 

Yes, life itself is more than a mere serendipitous synchronicity, a phrase composed of two long words. But life’s serendipitous synchronicities are markers: markers that point and encourage us to go in the right directions; markers that help us to discover that Divine spark within—that urge us to be larger than ourselves, to plumb the breadth and depth of our own consciousness and to imagine the unimaginable glory of God the Creator, Who has endowed us our humble souls—the essence of liberty, our very human beingness.

The Miller-McGuire House, Somerset, PA (Part 1)

The Miller-McGuire house at it looked in the 1960s.

 

A stately brick house built before the turn of the 20^th Century still stands in the 300 block of West Main Street in Somerset, Pennsylvania. It was purchased in 1921by my great grandfather, Lemon Miller. Long ago the property was divided up into three separate units, two of which are rented out.

Aunt Jenny

         

Lemon’s daughter, Jenny Lind Miller, worked as a teacher and occupied the third unit here, a ground floor apartment. (She was my great aunt, the younger sister of Mary (Miller) McGuire, my grandmother, whose daughter, Hilda, would become my mother.) Though she was my great aunt I always just called her “Aunt” Jenny. (She was named after Johanna Maria “Jenny” Lind, a Swedish opera singer, often known as the “Swedish Nightingale,” 1820-1887, who was one of the most highly regarded singers of the 19th Century.)

 

 

 

Mary (Miller) McGuire (1912)

                                                                                                                                                                

Jenny in 1912

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lemon Miller’s wife, Maggie (Brougher) Miller, had pre-deceased him many years back. Until his death in 1945 Aunt Jenny looked after her elderly father. If, per chance, he was not at home when she returned home from work, she always knew where to find him. Restless and homesick for the old family farm, he would grab his cane and start walking in the direction of Stoystown where it was located. Aunt Jenny would get in her car and find him somewhere along the route he always took.

 

 

Lemon Miller

Maggie (Brougher) Miller

Miss Jenny Miller never married. She started teaching in 1917 and taught the fourth grade for a long time in various Somerset elementary schools. Among them were Union St. School and Patriot St. School. (A recently discovered teachers contract dated 1937 indicates that she worked for the princely annual sum of $956.25!) Miss Miller retired in 1962 after 45 years of teaching. Undoubtedly, some of her students can still be found in the area. It would be a real pleasure to hear from Miss Miller’s former students and to hear their reminiscences of my dear old Aunt Jenny.

 

She was the favorite aunt of my mother’s sister, Aunt Janet, who also never married, whom I just called “Janet.” Janet first introduced me to Aunt Jenny. It must have been in the late 1950s when Janet drove me and a brother or two up from Maryland in her ’55 Ford. I remember our treks up here would always involve a ritual lunch stop in Hancock before continuing on through Breezewood and connecting up to the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Somerset seemed like a long way away back then. And on one of those trips, a tire blew out just before entering the Allegheny Tunnel. I recall Janet shuddering at the thought of what might have happened had the blowout occurred in the tunnel.

 

When we stayed  in Somerset, we slept in the living room on sturdy, fold-out Army cots. Unlike most cots of today, these were quite comfortable. On summer evenings we would all sit out on the front porch and talk. At that time there was a small bowling alley next door that had a pin ball machine. In the evenings the bowling alley was our refuge from the adults. My brothers and I would escape over there and toss many a quarter into that pin ball machine. During the day we walked a few blocks up the street to Somerset Drug Store for 5¢ candy bars (or had they gone up to 10¢ by then?

 

Every Christmas, envelopes would arrive from Aunt Jenny for us kids with $5 bills tucked into white envelopes. They had oval cut-outs so that only the portrait of President Lincoln was visible. I’m not sure whether these cash-gift envelopes exist anymore.

 

My earliest memories of Aunt Jenny were of a good and kindly, elderly woman, soft-spoken and gentle in her ways. She belonged to the Daughters of the American Revolution, tracing her lineage all the way back to Yost and Jeremiah Miller. These ancestors originally hailed from Ephrata and both had enlisted in the Revolutionary War effort to unyoke us from Great Britain. The family history is documented in a book entitled, A Brief History of Yost (Joseph) and Jeremiah Miller and their Descendants, authored by two judges, William H. Miller of Stoystown and John S. Miller of Somerset. It was published in1929 by Benshoff Printing Co., Johnstown, PA.

Family tree as depicted in the Miller book.

 

According to this book, Yost Miller’s descendants furnished 36 soldiers during the Civil War. Aunt Jenny’s grandfather was Samuel Miller, who had twelve sons and one daughter. Her uncles were known as “The Twelve Apostles,” and, as the local riddle went, it was said that “each brother had a sister.” Her Uncle Noah Miller was a member of Co. D, 142nd Regiment. He lost an eye at the battle of Gettysburg. Later he was promoted to captain of that company and went on to become a state senator. Uncle Gillian, a private in the same regiment, didn’t fare as well. He was wounded during the first day’s battle of Gettysburg and he died of his wounds 29 days later. Two other uncles, Samuel and Josiah Miller served in Co. G, 93rd Regiment.

 

In addition to soldiering, the descendants of the Joseph Miller branch were deeply devoted to teaching. The Miller Family book states that each of the Twelve Apostles were all educators, when not working the land on their farms.

 

My grandmother, Mary Miller, with her class (circa 1910).

Aunt Jenny was a God-fearing Lutheran. I still have her crucifix, as well as the Miller Family book. She and her older sisters, Mary and Anna, all attended California Normal School, a teacher training college. Here they received instruction in the norms of pedagogy and curriculum, and also studied music and singing. In 1910, when she was only 15 years old, Mary Miller began her teaching career in a “little red schoolhouse.” Some years later she would marry John L. McGuire of Latrobe, a Catholic. They often mentioned that they met in 1910 during an outing to watch Haley’s comet.  Both of my grandparents grew up on family farms, long since sold.

 

Upon retirement from teaching Aunt Jenny went on a trip around-the-world. I recall accompanying Janet and her to the docks in New York City where we dropped her off so she could board the Queen Mary to begin her world tour. For an old schoolmarm who spent her life in the parochial environs of Western Pennsylvania this must have been quite an adventure. When she returned, Aunt Jenny brought back medals of Pope Paul VI on key chains for us.

 

I remember an arcane fact about Aunt Jenny: she was awarded an honorary certificate issued by the Pennsylvania Department of Motor Vehicles for never having received as much as a parking ticket in over 50 years of driving!

 

In the mid-‘60s she visited us in Maryland. With Janet at the wheel, Aunt Jenny in the passenger seat, and me in the back, the three of us set out for Rockville to do some shopping. Seat belts were not quite in common usage back then. That day we were waiting to get into a left turn lane that had spilled out into the speed lane when another vehicle plowed into the back of our car. My aunts got really banged up. I remember Aunt Jenny, then about 70-years old, bouncing around off the dash board as we smashed into the car ahead of us. I got off with a bump on the head, but both of my aunts suffered serious injuries.

 

My Aunt Jenny never fully recovered from that accident. She died, reportedly of bone marrow cancer, in November, 1968. It was then that my grandmother, Mary McGuire, took over the management of the West Main Street property. Grandma never rented out Jenny’s old place. It was left vacant and not just for sentimental reasons. Jenny’s nephew, my Uncle Thomas McGuire, often occupied her old apartment until he passed away in 1991. Grandma finally gave up the ghost in 1993 at the ripe old age of 98.

 

Aunt Janet McGuire

From the early ‘90s onward the family property was managed by my Aunt Janet McGuire, who grew up in Latrobe (as did my mother). For many years she has lived in Chevy Chase, Maryland. (My mother, Hilda McGuire, married Fredric T. Suss, the son of Lebanese Christian immigrants, both of whom had been drawn to Washington, D.C. during service in the United States Navy. The Washington area is where I grew up.) Janet has always been an integral part of our Maryland family. She was separated from us only during the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, when she worked as the director of the USO in Manila and then in Rome. As an absentee landlord Janet handled things tolerably well. Managing a property from afar is no easy task, as those who have tried doing so know quite well. But as needs arose, Janet was able to draw on the assistance of some fine local tradesmen, who proved to be quite skilled and dependable.

 

In any event, the torch now seems to be passing to me. As tenants come and go and the weather beats down on the old place, there’s always something that needs attention. The apartments within have been improved over the years and they look fairly spiffy for a building whose footprint covers traces of the centuries before, and now after, the 20^th Century. Brick, and those old oak timbers and moldings, have held up amazingly well over time. In fact, a three-bedroom unit, consisting of the entire right side of the house, is presently up for rent. And, with any luck, the exterior will soon be well-restored as well. I am up here now staying with my cousin, Patrick McGuire, in another unit of the house while fixing it up. Pat retired here after 43 years of working for the American Postal Workers Union.

 

Sometime in the ’80s, I believe, the small bowling alley that used to be next door morphed into a Sheetz convenience store. Not long ago it was transformed yet again, this time into an eatery called Bad Boyz Bistro, now quite defunct. Across the street is the Rat Cage Garage. And next to that is Doherty Hardware, a 98-year going concern.

 

Jennifer Lynn (Suss) Gilmer

Yes, the 300-block of West Main Street could be a case study of what’s new, mixed-in with what’s old. Funny, the youngest of my five sisters bears the name “Jennifer.” Perhaps that was in honor of Aunt Jenny—and she would choose “Lynn” as her middle name. Is it a coincidence that the name “Jennifer Lynn” so closely resembles “Jenny Lind”? Some say there are no coincidences. All I know is that some great memories came out of this place. My attachment to Somerset and its surrounding boroughs and townships is grounded in a deep historical context, however tenuous that connection may be.

  

On the first page of the Miller Family book is the family tree. A reproduction of it accompanies this article. My line of descent can be traced to the first branch to the right, that of Joseph. The oldest son of Joseph was Samuel, the first upper branch. Samuel was my grandmother's grandfather, whose sons were grandma’s uncles, the so-called “Twelve Apostles.” The eleventh son was Lemon Miller, my great grandfather, who bought the house I am working on today.

 

Looking at the many branches of this tree, I imagine I must have a host of long, lost relatives in the area. It would be a treat to meet them and to listen to their stories. Regardless of whether we actually know our distant relatives or not, familial continuity has a perpetual life all its own. The stately old Miller-McGuire House on West Main stands as a touchstone to that past, a past that has endured to the present, and that continues standing strong as the future unfolds.

 

Voodoo Law & Government

On September 3, 2018, I noted the following comment on the American Intelligence Media's daily feed of Sept. 2 on AIM4truth.org. It responds to a 14-part expose about The True Back Story of the Missing 13th Amendment by Headlines with a Voice. It is an overview of a claim made by researchers that the original 13th Amendment was, in fact, ratified and that the true intent of the 13th Amendment, when properly interpreted, includes a prohibition on lawyers holding public office. I agreed with the commenter, "Ri-chard," and replied.

1. Ri-chard on September 1, 2018 at 7:05 pm

Reply

The first thing all must understand about the founding of America is it is all fraud and theater.
there is no Active Constitution, Declaration of Independence, what is a Republic was never defined in any document. therefore, no Republic was given and the 13th Amendment is a mute point.
The Treaty of Peace 1783 made the Constitution dormant document at best. The people were not recognized as Sovereigns, the people lost control of their money, commerce and banking as King George was made the Arch Treasurer of the united States of America per the Treaty. He was also awarded his share of all the Gold, Silver and Copper found in America and this was to be passed on to his heirs into the future. That Treaty gave nothing to the people who fought and defeated the English. The foundations for the Treaty of Peace were formed in the 1666 Virginia Charter.
Words mean everything folks. Words on paper by the controlling powers that be, have written who actually won the war and who gets the spoils of the war. Read the Charter and Treaty claims.
Always follow the money. The Revolutionary War was nothing but a business venture for the benefit of a few. And the people were just cannon fodder. We can thank the King and the King’s men as his English Esquires and Masons named Ben Franklin, John Jay and Thomas Jefferson for this fraud perpetrated on We the People when they negotiated and signed the Treaty for the King’s benefit..
Not until the people know the true founding of America, who were the founders, make null and void the Treaty of Peace, rewrite the Treaty with first recognizing the people as sovereigns to choose there own paths for their Rule of Law based on God’s law and Natural law – not the English Maritime and BAR would be a good start before cancelling the proclamation that President Roosevelt made in 1933 claiming all citizens are the enemy of the State.

Yes, there it a lot more to be done but first we Collectively must destroy the foundations that placed us as citizen subjects and debt slaves.

 

Ri-chard's comment decries what I refer to as "voodoo law and government." His correct and cogent observation about following the money in the treaties is crucial to apprehending the façade of our "Republic," that staggers around, zombie-like, instead of being championed by a People comprised of sovereign individuals. Given that our government and law is, in fact, a sly fiction that depends upon legalese magic double-speak, any and all analysis of politics and current events seems rather ridiculous; we are chasing our own tails, lost in the symptoms, instead of rooting out the fundamental cause of this phony, two-faced body politic.

The Pen and the Lance

Four months of mute stagnation—a long, dark veil was finally lifting. Work duties remained, but hopeful rays of inspiration cut into the dullness of Harland’s world. Yes, at long last a suffocating procrastination was ending; the ennui that had dogged him from late spring through the summer began dissipating as mid-August approached.

 

He felt a slight rustle of the Holy Ghost kindling his bones. Such a notion may seem like a hangover of mythic consciousness, especially when mirrored against the idea of ETs among us, a secret space program, or similar phantasms stirring in his mind and imagination. Yet Harland would stick to the towering glory, the divine goodness that is God, a mystery beyond his ken. He coddled and treasured the Christ energies, the Trinitarian creed, the apostolic faith of his fathers. And yes, his quiet spiritual fervor seemed quaint when compared to the quantum twists of hyper-space-time modernity, but this was the way it was and it would remain so.

 

Politics and political maneuvering presented complexities. Harland believed that a great leader, a good man who inspired a nation, could easily be steered in wrong directions. It was a seduction practiced by lesser men, advising great men to err. (Consequently, intermittent course corrections need to be made; misrule would never do.) Still, the vision and example of a great leader could work wonders in the world if properly nurtured. But who is able to manage the intricate delicacies of political intrigue, especially by one’s very own advisers? It takes a very special person.

 

Trump was such a man. In Harland’s opinion he was the best president since Andrew Jackson. He was getting seasoned to the job. But there were some around him whose intentions were not as honorable—neocons, two-faced British lackeys, dual citizens of Israel, old-think war hawks, and just plain useful idiots who were not at all useful or beneficial to the People.

 

Ah, the People, We the People; a motley krewe to be sure: fat, loud, simple and stupid—at least that’s the “public face,” the way the fake news media portrays us. But in essence, the People are American individualists who are drawn from all walks of life, all sorts of physical types and temperaments, from varied backgrounds and social strata. And many have a certain unique, creative moxie that lays dormant until it is safe to be released. Harland thought that a mild surge came forward during the Reagan years. But he relishes the memory of JFK’s administration (its foibles and limitations notwithstanding) when by its very being it unleashed a tsunami of pent-up People power in the form of hopes and dreams, inventiveness and good intentions. But that only receded into a low tide after 11/22/63, languishing as an undercurrent ever since.

  

We Americans are an independent lot who have been the target of collectivist herding for over a half century. Yet we remain a bulwark against everything the New World Order has thrown at us, from drugs, chemtrails, dumbed-down schools and leftist professors, to bad food, political correctness, and a mania for –“isms” brought to us by identity politics that seeks to separate and alienate us from each other.

 

By now we are pretty worn down by all of the Tom-foolery, the fakery and phoniness, but by golly we are still standing—and standing proud. Targets of social engineering, e.g., what John Coleman termed “the Aquarian Conspiracy,” and a complicit media, we are a seemingly non-regenerative lot—the offspring of a psychotic and rootless civilization. Despite this we are still intact, just barely, as a People—and we still have guns. We are ready to resurrect ourselves from over a half century of an unrelenting hammering by a globalist cabal allowed by lesser political leaders to run rough shod over us. Secret societies and their malign intelligence networks have cooked us in a stew of cynicism and mind control that is unprecedented. We now live in a “CIA-run” society. This faux bunch has infiltrated every space that might otherwise provide a safe harbor. Industry, the trades, law, medicine, business, science, the arts, academia, publishing, even the major religions (particularly Christianity) have come under the thumb of their subverting influence.

     

Harland sighed deeply. These days one could access so many essays that intoned this now familiar elegy of a beaten-down nation and a fallen world—essays that list all of the problems in depressing detail while offering no positive vision, no solutions that might manifest a more encouraging future. He would not add one more of these essays to the lot.

 

Is Q-anon really JFK, Jr.? It’s a fascinating possibility to consider. The net was abuzz with Q-sleuths trying to make the case that he faked his own death and has been quietly working with Trump since 1999 to Make America Great Again. Harland hoped it was true.

 

Trump is doing an extraordinary job of corralling the traitorous Swamp creatures (in spite of the fact that he appointed SES globalist-enablers, Sessions and Wray); this, in spite of the fact that he ostensibly supports the Rothschild Zionist State of Israel and its Satanist leader, Netanyahu. Still, might this be the pragmatism of the politician in him? After all, Trump still has lots to do and to alienate the Zio-lobby too early in the game may doom his plan from moving forward. He does have a lifetime of dealing with this faction and is facile at doing so. There is now talk of him subduing the Rothschild Federal Reserve System.

 

This I gotta see, mused Harland.

 

On investigating the so-called Dark Ages—he had sent away for some books he thought might clue him in to what history may be trying to hide there. But those books proved to be so conventional (and therefore “boringly unilluminating”) that he gave up going down that supposed rabbit hole. In reading the Lives of the Saints, though, many of whom lived in the Dark Ages, Harland believes that something very magical was taking place during this transition era from the “Roman Empire of the mind” to the feudalist Middle Ages. In his mind’s eye he sees King Arthur and his Knights of the Roundtable; he sees a time when men were men; when women were virtuous. It was a time of great faith and fortitude, courage and chivalry—before the invention of gunpowder and mirrors. Maybe it’s best left at that.

 

I wonder, thought Harland, how many others out there are tired of surfing their favorite websites, looking for something real and meaningful. I am. I’m tired of the same old political, economic and socio-cultural fricassee that gets served up day after day. Fakestream media has its daily CIA-produced feed that get parroted by its networks and complicit internet sites; but so too does the alternative media have some sort of common clearinghouse. I see many of the same articles and videos (and assorted “fantasy pieces”) across an array of red pill cyber-places I visit.  Though there are some sites that offer curious ET tidbits, prophecy, and paranormal subjects, this too gets old.

 

Harland worried that filling his time screen-gazing at internet sites was becoming like watching TV. Not a day went by that he did not get on his computer. And even though the internet could be a forum for anyone with enough know-how and imagination to get something going there, it still has a certain amount of that same “programing” that TV has always had. The slicker and more “produced” the site, the more likely it was disinfo meant to guide your thinking into some level of mind control. To hold firm to the belief that only dirty money could afford a glitzy, glamorous web presence, however, also corralled high artistry and tech talent into a sort of disinfo-limbo. It was a conundrum.

 

Another conundrum that dogged Harland was the “secret society adept turned white-hat-whistle blower” phenomenon. Douglas Gabriel is a prime example, having been an NSA guy, (and perhaps still being) a Jesuit, Freemason, and Rosicrucian. Former CIA guys like Steve Pieczenik and Kevin Shipp also fall into that category. Another web oddity is former Economist editor, Benjamin Fulford, who claims to be a member of the “White Dragon Society.” These fellows do seem on the up and up to him, but a seed of doubt remains because of their alliances (or perhaps “allegiances” is a better term). There are others. Harland won’t even attempt to dissemble the “exo-politics crowd,” which presents its own weird difficulties when it comes to reasonable discernment.

 

I suppose it sort of boils down to the question of pedigree. A person’s pedigree is tied to its own special legacy, which in turn is based not only upon genetics and familial conditioning, but also upon past education, experience, and a defining influence from networks of friends and acquaintances. You can go by your gut instincts if you have reason to believe they are well-grounded.

 

The esoteric “metrical-for-lunch-bunch” out there might argue that if we only come to know ourselves—our inner daemon, that divine Self within—then we will be guided appropriately in our lives, and our discernment and decisions will show us the Way. In past ages, certain Saints, Sufis, and Zen monks come to mind. Today, this Way seems to require a willingness to engage in a certain gnosis, perhaps theosophy, anthroposophy or neo-anthroposophy; that is, to delve into the Egyptian mysteries of Pythagoras and/or some sort of alchemical Hermeticism. In this way we are brought to the chasm of occult knowledge—a shifting and shifty place to be. Without proper guidance, Harland thinks that such a seeker can become quite the occultist loser, with the most precious loss being that seeker’s soul. Thus it is that we get tricked by the Master Deceiver.

 

While acknowledging the benefits of guidance from an authentic spiritual master, Harland remains wary. In this false age how does one know when such an avatar is truly encountered. More precisely, when encountering a purported master how does one know with any certainty whether to be accepting of that master’s spiritual guidance? The conundrum is compounded…

 

Forget spiritual master. Even on the political adviser level it seems easy to get burned. How is it that Trump appointed his own people to head up the State Department, Department of Justice, the FBI, the CIA—and there is still resistance and cover-up and con games being played? Can’t these new agency heads, presumably sympathetic to the Trump administration, force their own personnel to comply with document requests and purge their own agencies of recalcitrant, traitorous employees? What am I missing here? Can’t Soros be arrested?

 

There is a huge desire among patriots to see those who have betrayed their country (nay, their very own souls) to be held accountable. When will the many high profile criminals and traitors be tried and convicted? When will we see them hang?

 

The same applies to the Catholic Church. When will this anti-Pope Francis get the boot? When will the heretics, the usurers, and the pedophile priests, along with their Luciferian protectors, face justice? At a time when the exoteric religions are in complete disarray Harland remains skeptical that anything of much worth can be found in the more esoteric realms these days. That may be a logical cynicism. Then again, looking to the condition of any institution for indicators of the state of esotericism today may not be wise at all, unless one concludes that in times of chaos all and everything is in chaos.

  

Harland has been dumbstruck these past four months. With this essay he breaks his silence. But lo and behold, nothing much has changed; the regurgitation continues. Perhaps writing it out will help, perhaps not.

 

Communing with my own muse is preferable, he thought, to sifting through the words that represent the musings of others.

 

With this thought Harland posted his essay to the public space, where it would be duly unnoticed, as had his five books; his work and his destiny one and the same.