I like my Kindle.
I use it a lot ...
The Daily Lectionary and the Poem of the Day.
Lots of books, which take up no space;
An important truth when living in a tiny apartment.
If I'm doing the liturgy, I put my prayers on it.
And the many weddings I do.
It's a great tool; I like my Kindle.
But ... (and you knew this was coming).
My wife gave a hardcopy of "Hillbilly Elegy."
And with pen in hand (needed item for me to read),
I'm enjoying this very good book.
Having spent nearly two years in West Virginia,
With the West Virginia Mountain Project, a
Presbyterian Mission started by some women who
Came into the Mountains on mules.
At the turn of the century.
The last century. Ha!
The book touches on so many levels. Describing
Behaviors and values that I encountered in them thar Hills.
And have never forgotten.
But, all that aside (this isn't a book review).
It's fun reading hardcopy.
Underlining easily, making margin notes.
Flipping pages back and forth.
Am I old fashioned?
Who knows.
But this I know for sure.
I like my Kindle.
But ...
I love the feel of a book.
It's heft, it's substantiality.
The way it looks setting on the counter.
And seeing what I've underlined.
In purple ink, no less.
Showing posts with label West Virginia Mountain Project. Show all posts
Showing posts with label West Virginia Mountain Project. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Mud Everywhere ... a Memory of Beginnings!
The end of 1969, D and I left Holland, MI in our light green ‘66 VW Beetle and drove down to Charleston, West Virginia to begin a two-year stated supply with the West Virginia Mountain Project.
It had rained a lot, and West Virginia south of Charleston was flooded, so we holed up in Charleston motel for a few days. We arrived at night, so it was only in the morning, with cloudy skies and barren trees, that we saw the “hills of West Virginia” and the swollen Kanawha River, in what would be our first home after seminary, an experience that would come to shape the remainder of my ministry and political values.
We finally got to our home, a new little manse, off the main road, over the railroad tracks, up the holler, next to the white clapboard church, on a little rise at the foot of a mountain, the mining town of Ridgeview - everything there high and dry, and so we moved in, without furniture, as it would be a few days until the moving van arrived.
My first task, hurriedly arranged, an agent for FEMA, and my “office,” a dingy bar beneath a railroad trestle, beside Brush Creek, Nellis, West Virginia, to fill out reports for people claiming flood damage.
I remember: mud everywhere.
Cold, damp, grey, and the tired, tired, faces of those who had lost so much.
It had rained a lot, and West Virginia south of Charleston was flooded, so we holed up in Charleston motel for a few days. We arrived at night, so it was only in the morning, with cloudy skies and barren trees, that we saw the “hills of West Virginia” and the swollen Kanawha River, in what would be our first home after seminary, an experience that would come to shape the remainder of my ministry and political values.
We finally got to our home, a new little manse, off the main road, over the railroad tracks, up the holler, next to the white clapboard church, on a little rise at the foot of a mountain, the mining town of Ridgeview - everything there high and dry, and so we moved in, without furniture, as it would be a few days until the moving van arrived.
My first task, hurriedly arranged, an agent for FEMA, and my “office,” a dingy bar beneath a railroad trestle, beside Brush Creek, Nellis, West Virginia, to fill out reports for people claiming flood damage.
I remember: mud everywhere.
Cold, damp, grey, and the tired, tired, faces of those who had lost so much.
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