My Path, Part 1
In the introductory passage of A River Runs Through It, Norman Maclean proceeds to reveal more about the nature of his family. We learn that his is a Scots Presbyterian tribe within which there is a clergyman:
We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in western Montana, and our father was a Presbyterian minister and a fly fisherman who tied his own flies and taught others. He told us about Christ’s disciples being fishermen, and we were left to assume, as my brother and I did, that all first-class fishermen on the Sea of Galilee were fly fishermen and that John, the favorite, was a dry-fly fisherman.
Well, I can relate. For my family on my mother’s side – the Joneses, Foxes, Carlsons (a.k.a. Hallins), Petersons – of which I take unequivocally after in every way, is similar enough. Her people, though, are Low Church Anglican, better known on these shores as very small-town Episcopalian for respectability (the upper limit), Salt-of-the-Earth Methodist for moral rigor (the center), and on-fire-revival Wesleyan for enthusiasm (the lower limit). But regarding clergymen, mom’s side of the family is stacked high, through the generations, with ministers. The most notable one is John Aylmer (1521 – 1594), the cleric who famously proclaimed, “God is English” (And my friends wonder where I get it from.). As Bishop of London from 1577 to his death, he was a central figure in the development of Anglicanism as well as English constitutionalism. Yet after John, mom’s family counts Methodist and Wesleyan parsons in its ranks like the stars of the Milky Way. Although there aren’t too many Episcopal priests that I know of.
The women in my mother’s family, at least as far back as three generations, are just as churchy. Great-grandmother Jones was the type that prayed without ceasing. Her daughters – my great aunts Ruth and Helen – were stalwart Sunday School teachers. And then there’s Grandpa Jones’ cousin Blanche. We referred to her as ‘Aunt Blanche.’ She’s the most emblematic of them all, which calls for an anecdote.
When Aunt Blanche turned 90, her children gave her a birthday party at their church in Frederick, Maryland. Now by that point in her life she was a little unsteady. Consequently, her children escorted Blanche to the front of the sanctuary (Remember, this is Low Church. There is no chancel and nave.) and stood with her facing the crowd while everyone sang Happy Birthday. As you’d expect, the widest, brightest smile came over Blanche, and at the final “Happy Birthday to you,“ she clapped and waived. I mean Aunt Blanche was adorable. But then her demeanor shifted unexpectedly. Sorrow overcame her and Blanche’s smile was superseded by the worried expression befitting a distraught mother gazing upon her wayward son. “Oh, I want all of you here to know Jees-uss,” she pleaded. “If you don’t, won’t you ask Him into your heart today? Make Him your savior. Say, “Jees-uss, I am a sinner,” and from there on, she recited the rest of that Evangelical staple – The Sinner’s Prayer.
Such is my mother’s family of which I take after 284-percent. There’s not an ounce of dad’s side in me. Moreover, here I am at mid-life looking back, my career as a chemist and most other things gone, recognizing that I’m very much like Aunt Blanche.
Although, it’s not as cut and dry as you might think. I went through a stage during which I was getting into a lot of trouble – at school, at summer camp, and in the neighborhood. Regarding the first, I was placed in a special program that went by the acronym ‘S.W.A.T.’ I’ve no idea what it stood for, only that it was for students with failing grades who were bad in nearly every way. Regarding the second, I was kicked-out and banned from ever returning. That, however, took a fortuitous turn – a topic for another day. Regarding the third, my custom of sneaking out around midnight for DIY commando training and mischief led to a run-in with Frederick County, Maryland Sheriff’s Department.
The problem, though, was never intellectual. I always believed the tenets of The Faith. It was cultural. In truth, I’m not Low Church by nature, either in mentality or in temperament. Thus, Christianity as practiced and presented was too emotional and, even in the 1970s and early 1980s, was too therapeutic and inward-looking for me, and so it came off boring – reason enough to go the opposite direction.
Not that a counterexample was ever lacking. For my grandfather, the Reverend Glenn D. Jones (Methodist), who was scholarly and thus equipped to answer questions, established proof-of-principle that Christianity has intellectual substance and thus is fit for meat-eaters. But while his influence was necessary, it was insufficient to keep me out of trouble.
Oh yes, I recognize that I am conflating faith and good citizenship. So be it because I think that, while the first is akin to that muscular organ in the thoracic cavity, the second is like the fluid transporting oxygen about the entire body. Now, just as blood after that little prick and subsequent testing betrays the condition of the heart, how you act reveals whether The Faith is a living, breathing part of you.
The fact is that other things besides the influence of Grandpa Jones were necessary, too. Unfortunately, they were woefully absent such that by June 1982, when the school year ended, my circumstances screamed ruin. Yet quite unexpectedly, either God came knocking or I had matured enough or both. Because something clicked that summer break. I had changed. Moreover, I knew that if I stayed on the straight and narrow through to the end of my upcoming freshman year at Governor Thomas Johnson High School, never once lapsing, that the change would be permanent. And so it was.
Not that I didn’t have a reputation to live down, because I did, and it took a while. But by Spring 1986, the end of my senior year, this new persona was fully established. And I’m reminded of that today when I read the comments left by classmates and teachers alike in my senior yearbook.
Now, if I could only return to Spring 1986 and go forward from there, choosing mechanical engineering as my profession instead of chemistry. But life is a Russian novel. Case in point: Trouble began with a lawnmower accident.
Article 1 Introduction
Article 2 Ecclesial Postmodernism
Article 3 Men
Article 4 The Odds
Article 5 Argument from Beauty
Article 6 The Trinity in the Taconics
Article 7 Not By Spirit Alone
Article 8 A Tough Sell
Article 9 A Tight Fix
Article 10 Catch More Fish!
Fieldsports and The Faith Vignettes