A Letter of Tribute to Dad

 

                                                                     Sunday, May 19, 2019

Dear Dad,

You have always made me proud to call you “Dad”.  As I look back over my life, I am grateful for all the ways you have blessed me and for all the many valuable lessons you taught me.  I am not saying that you are perfect, but you have certainly been a father worthy of all my love and respect, and you will always have both for as long as I live.

As a very young child, I remember feeling so secure in your presence.  Remember the summer evenings we would walk across the front lawns from our house to Grandpa and Grandma’s to watch Raw Hide on TV?  It felt so safe to ride on your shoulders or hold your hand as we walked through the scary dark shadows.  Any time we three girls had to make the trek without you, we would fight over who got to carry the flashlight, and then run as fast as we could before the Boogieman could get us.

In Venango, you played Bull with us in the front room.  As you bellowed and ran after us on your hands and knees, my heart was filled with terror at the idea of getting caught.  However, you, in your sensitivity to me being the youngest, allowed me to be your Baby Bull, keeping me in the middle of the fun along with the rest.

There was a sense of peace and well-being in the midst of the thunderstorms when we sat on the front porch to watch the lightning flash and listen to the thunder roar.  It taught me to look for God’s presence in the storm.  Today, a good thunderstorm has a calming affect upon me, reminding me that God is there.

When we went on long trips to visit family or to take Mom to her check-ups in Rochester, NY, we would pass some of the time singing songs as a family.  It was always a special treat when we could get you to sing along.  Your solo parts on Nothing But The Blood were the best—you sang the questions and we girls sang the response.  Another hymn we could often talk you into singing was Power In The Blood.  We’d see how many “powers” we could fit in the chorus.  It didn’t matter that you couldn’t carry a tune.  We were simply delighted that you were belting it out in a joyful noise with us.  Smethport was always our Pepsi stop on the way to Oswayo.  To this day I prefer Pepsi-Cola to Coca-Cola and believe it is because you always did.

Riding the school bus in the afternoon as you drove for Cambridge Springs Schools created more lasting memories for me.  I loved sitting next to you on the heater, singing as the roar of the bus motor drowned out all other sounds around me.  I had my own special spot on the bus.  Years later, as an adult, I drove a bus for four years in Sugar Grove and felt a connection to you and those early days shared with you.

While living at Findley Lake, you taught me how to hunt for nightcrawlers and thread a fishing hook through a wiggling angleworm.  For my tenth birthday, I asked for a fishing pole and you bought me one.  I was so proud of it!  I practiced for hours, learning how to cast the line.  I remember catching a 10-inch bass with it and being so pleased.

At Deckards, you bought us each our own bicycle on which we spent countless hours riding the back roads and around the church parking lot.  You also taught me how to drive the riding lawn mower and got me the job of cutting the church lawn for $5 each week.  It felt good to know my dad trusted me with such a responsibility.

The first year we had spring revival meetings at Deckards, I won the contest for inviting the most guests attending each night.  The prize was a Panasonic radio/cassette tape recorder.  It made me so proud to win something worth so much money.   Many fun-filled hours were spent with friends and sisters around the tape recorder.  We recorded all kinds of silly interviews, music off the radio, and our own singing.  

Moving to Sugar Lake parsonage, I often roamed the woods and along Sugar Creek with our dog Ginger by my side.  You taught us how to work in the garden and build a good bonfire for roasting hot dogs and marshmallows.  We rode home from church in the trunk of the car a few times when we needed to give other people a ride and couldn’t fit us all in seats.  What an adventure it was to view the world from the open trunk of the car!  Often, we would spot deer along the way after an evening service or meeting.  Upon the hill behind our house, we saw a doe with twin fawns playing in the field once. What a delightful surprise that was!

After Kay was enrolled at Fort Wayne Bible College, you took me along on the road trips to take her out and back.  We had lots of conversations about the Bible, God, His Will for my life, and many other topics.  We never took too long stopping for gas or the restroom, and if we stopped to eat it was via the McDonald’s drive-thru window.  Most of the time we had sandwiches, fruit and cookies packed by Mom for at least one meal on the road.  When I was old enough you taught me how to drive the car and gave me lots of driving practice.  Even after I wrecked the car, you still entrusted the driving to me.  You weren’t afraid to let me learn through mistakes. 

For me, being a preacher’s kid was like being part of the First Family in the White House.  I felt special and was proud that my father was in the leadership of so many programs—directing Senior High Camp, organizing revival meetings and missionary conferences, on the leadership team for Holiday Happening, and part of the ministerial team working on the Holt Orphanage meat canning event for the community.  I felt like I had insider privileges when it came to church property, we were always the first ones there and the last to leave—we ate meals there, slept there, played there, worked there.  It seemed that anytime the doors were opened, we were there (even for many business meetings).  The guests at the parsonage table were amazing!  They came from all around the world, shared inspirational stories of God’s work in their lives, and we got to get a peek into their personal lives when others only knew them from their public speaking.  Our eyes and hearts were opened to different races, cultures, languages, needs, and miracles through interacting with visitors at the parsonage.  As the preacher’s kid, I had inside information that other kids didn’t have.  I guess I may have been a little cocky at times around parishioners’ kids. 

When it came time for me to go to college, you and Mom did all you could to help make my dream of attending Taylor University come true.  I still remember the day you both drove me out and left me there—our first look at the campus, and I knew no one.  It was hard to say good-bye, but good-byes are always hard for you.  I knew once again that you loved me and would be praying daily for me.  After you left, I found myself at college and unsure of what major studies I should pursue.  You had counseled me to study Christian Education, saying it would prepare me for life, ministry, and parenting.  Since I was testing my independence, I didn’t declare any major the first semester.  However, I trusted your godly wisdom and took an introductory CE course, and discovered that it was the field of study for me.  I’ve never regretted that decision.  Thank you for the sound advice and support.  Those four years at Taylor were filled with wonderful memories and discoveries. 

At your encouragement, I signed up for a summer in Colombia, South America with OMS after my sophomore year.  You had always said everyone should experience the mission field and that you wished you could someday.  It was a life-changing experience for me, and it led me back to Ecuador years later.  Finances were never an issue, you always said God would provide if it were His will.  You were right.  He always did.

At college graduation, you and Mom were there to celebrate and drive me home.  The job hunt began with you praying with me and advising me through that process.  When the decision was made to take the job in Indianapolis, you drove me out to settle me in the mother-in-law apartment the church provided and to search for my first car.  We found the used dark green Chrysler Aspen, and you paid the down payment for me.  Once again, you left me in God’s hands to begin my ministry at Southminster United Presbyterian church.  Although a bit nervous, I knew that you and Mom would be supporting me in prayer.  It gave me the courage to face the unknown challenges of my first real job.

The next thing I knew, I was headed to Ecuador, South America as a missionary with OMS.  You and Mom waved me off at the little Jamestown airport after nine months of living at home with you in Warren and raising my support throughout the area.  It was scary and exciting at the same time to be headed to places unknown with people unknown.  What sustained me was knowing that you would be praying for me.  As the plane took off and rose into the air, I remember seeing a rainbow off the little commuter plane’s wing and feeling a reassurance that the God my parents had raised me to know and trust was ever-present in my life. 

When you saw me the next time, I was civilly married and we had come home for a church wedding to celebrate with friends and family.  As we all know, that was a fifteen-year misstep, but you never expressed your disappointment or criticism of my poor choices to me.  You continued to love me, pray for me, and support me as your daughter.  God was faithful even through the messes. Through the divorce and into another tumultuous marriage, you have continued to express love and acceptance to me.  I can’t begin to express how much that means to me.  You continue to cheer me on towards faith and service.

Motherhood became a reality for me after a lifetime of yearning and desire.  Stepchildren, foster children, and adopted children—you loved them and have prayed for them all.  Thank you, for including them into the family and passing the legacy of Christ on to them. 

One thing I can say with gratitude and pride, you were a preacher who strived to practice what he preached.  You didn’t always manage that, of course, because you are human.  However, your sincere efforts were exemplary.  Your tithing and sacrificial giving, your dependency upon God, your compassion for the lost and needy around the world, and your faithfulness in serving the Lord have impacted my life as well as countless others.  Thank you, Dad!  I love you and respect you.  I just want to be sure you know that.                                                          --Jan

Gone On Home to Heaven

 

Obituary

The Reverend Darell “Bud” D. Harris, 92, native of Oswayo, PA passed away peacefully from natural causes at his daughter’s home in Cooperstown, PA on December 16, 2020.  He was born to Carl R. Harris and M. Lucille (Brizzee) Harris on May 4, 1928.

At age 15, Darell found Christ and eventually went into full-time Christian ministry.  As a young adult, he worked as a driller in the oil and gas fields, and later as a welder at the Air Preheater in Wellsville, NY.  He served in the US Army from 1950-1952; stationed in Germany.  In 1952, Darell married Elaine F. Loucks.  From 1960-1998 Darell and Elaine served in pastoral ministry under the American Sunday School Union, the Evangelical United Brethren Church; the United Methodist Church, and the Wesleyan Church.

Known for his faithful service to the Lord, Pastor Harris delivered biblical messages spiced with many of his own experiences and illustrations.  Evangelism and world missions were at the center of his ministry.  Even in retirement, he continued until almost the age of 90 to minister through pulpit supply and two home Bible study groups.  He loved reading and telling stories; in recent years, he authored his own book filled with stories and life experiences.  He also enjoyed hunting, working with horses, making maple syrup, and having a dog at his side.  

Darell was predeceased by his wife of 65 years, an infant brother R. Graydon Harris, a sister Corrine Y. Pearsall, a brother-in-law Hugh Pearsall, and a nephew Walter Harris.  Surviving him are his daughters, Kay Kilburn (Larry) of Arcade, NY, Sue Hill (Rahn) of Cooperstown, PA, and Jan Rodriguez (Manuel) of Shiloh, IL; one brother Robert T. Harris (Doris) of Allegany, NY; thirteen grandchildren, Gregory Kilburn, Kurt Kilburn (Nancy), Stacy Cameron (Troy), Laura Pierce (Jared), Matthew Kilburn (Julie), Rebecca Mattocks (Dustin), Kristin Walker (Jameson), Kelly Koelle (Jerad), Nicole Montgomery (Martell), Juliane Rodriguez, and Steven Rodriguez, Christopher Rodriguez, and Mary Rodriguez,; twenty-three great-grandchildren; many nieces and nephews.  

There will be a private graveside service and a public memorial at a location and date to be announced. Arrangements are under the direction of Olney-Foust Funeral Homes & Crematory, 621 S. Main Street, Ulysses, PA.

Living Off the Land

Earl Sherwood and his wife Laura truly lived and raised their family off the land.  They lived with their five children—Fred, Julia, Wallace, Robert, and Henrietta—on the northeastern end of what is now Sherwood Street in Oswayo.  They had a few acres on the side hill where they always had a large garden that they worked together, growing, harvesting, and canning or drying the produce.  There was no freezer, so they needed to preserve food in this way.  They picked all kinds of berries, apples, nuts, etc. that grew wild in the countryside. The family ate leeks, dandelions, and other weeds such as red root, milkweed, pigweed, mustard, and cowslips that grew everywhere.  Earl also dug wild ginseng root which brought a good price when he sold it for medicine.

   

Earl kept 40 to 50 hives of honeybees and sold the honey.  Many of the hives had been taken from bee trees in the woods.  He would find a bee tree and keep watch all summer.  Then he would cut it in the fall to take the honey and sell it.  If he saw a honeybee in the wild, Earl would use a little honey in a small box and when the bee entered the box in his hand, he would place a small amount of flour on the bee and let it loose.  He would follow it as far as he could see, sit down and wait until the bee returned for more honey, then follow it again until he located the bee tree.  Later he would cut the tree and gather the bees and honey.  As you can imagine, this was time-consuming and took great patience.

Earl usually had a horse which he used to work and fit the ground to plant, cultivate, etc.  He would cut trees and skid them, cutting them up by hand for firewood.  They got milk and butter from a cow he would keep.  For meat, he raised a calf, as well as a pig or two each year.  He would also keep a flock of chickens for eggs and meat. 

Besides raising his meat, Earl was a great hunter, trapper, and fisherman.  The family was known to eat squirrel, grouse, woodchuck, pheasant, raccoon, and venison.

Earl always had a foxhound, and sometimes a coon hound. One year when I was in the 7^th or 8^th grade, his foxhound died.  Since he didn’t have money or time to buy and train a foxhound, he used three of his children as foxhounds.  He’d take one at a time out of school to track foxes, having the child stay on the trail “barking” while he positioned himself ahead where he figured the fox would come through.   He hunted fox to sell the hides.

I never knew Earl to have a car.  He always walked or hired someone to take him to Olean.  He would always walk to other towns or bum rides.  The family members were good neighbors and honest.  Laura was active in the United Brethren Church in Christ at Oswayo, always attending the Ladies Aide the first and third Thursday of each month.  All of the family that I knew have been dead for many years, but I still remember how they lived off the land with such resourcefulness.

--Darell

"Daddy" Haskins

Robert Haskins, “Daddy”, as he was called by all who knew him, was an old man by the time I first met him although he wasn't as old as I am today. When I was 10 or 12 years old, Daddy came to live with my Grandpa and Grandma Harris in Coneville. He lived with them for three or four years since he could no longer live alone and had no one to help. Daddy lived with my grandparents up to the week before he died at the County Farm at Coudersport. 

My Grandparents, Ernest and Lottie Harris, on back porch of their home.
"Daddy" Haskins lived with them for a few years.

Ernest and Lottie Harris Home on Route 44, Coneville, PA

As a younger man, Daddy had worked in logging and wood cutting camps, filed saws and old axes, and done other little jobs to pay for his board. By the time I met him, he had many interesting life stories for a boy my age. He told how he skidded logs with oxen and horses, and how he had been a riverman floating logs down the Oswayo Creek every spring from Coneville, PA to Weston Mills, NY. It would take two to three days to float down the creek to the mill. After they got there, the rivermen would walk back to Coneville to float more logs down the creek until the water became too low to float them. 

The last job Daddy had for several years before living with my grandparents was at the chemical factory in Coneville. The factory closed in 1940 or 1941. It made charcoal, chemicals, wood alcohol, and acetate. The men who worked on the acetate floor wore wooden shoes because it was so hot it would burn their feet. The wooden shoes fit over their regular shoes. There were huge furnaces where they burned the wood to make the products. It took a lot of teams of horses to haul the chemical wood which was all hardwood and was cut 56 inches long. Many farmers hauled it in the winter when they weren’t busy in the fields. They cut and hauled it by the cord. A man who was willing to work could cut one and a half cord of wood and stack it in a day. He was paid $1.50 per cord, cut and piled. 

Daddy’s wife had died before I ever met him, but he had a son and daughter. It seems that in those days everyone had a nickname. My father was called “Skinny” Harris by some people. Others had nicknames like “Stub”, “Baldy”, “Curly”, “Shorty” and “Chub” given to them. Daddy’s son Herman was nicknamed “Moony” because he had a full round face that was reddened by his abuse of alcohol. It’s sad, but true, that both Daddy’s son Moony and daughter Bessie were terribly addicted to alcohol. 

Moony worked many years at the chemical factory and often came to work under the influence of his drink. One day he came to work in worse condition than usual. When Clayton R. “Stub” Lawton, the superintendent of the plant, received a phone call that higher management from New York City was going to take a plant tour that day, he pulled Moony aside. Knowing Moony’s condition, as a good neighbor and friend hoping to avoid problems, he told Moony to take the rest of the day off and to go on home early. 

Supposing that Moony had followed orders and left, Stub went about the business of leading the company higher-ups on the tour. To his surprise, Moony appeared and walked up to the Big Cheese and started mouthing off. 

The top officer of the company turned to Stub, “This man is drunk. Fire him!” 

Moony pushed his stomach up against the Big Cheese and said, “If you think I’M drunk, you ought to see my sister Bessie!” and walked away. 

For years after that, when someone wanted to impress another coworker, they would repeat the words, “If you think I’M drunk, you ought to see my sister Bessie!” 

There are two comments I'd like to add concerning this story. 

1. Moony went back to work the next day and worked there until the plant was closed years later. His friend had his back. “A person with unfaithful friends soon comes to ruin.  But there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother." –Proverbs 18:24 (NIRV)

2. After years of battling the addiction to alcohol, Bessie became a Believer in Christ, got the victory over the addiction, and died a Christian.  "But let us give thanks to God!  He gives us the victory because of what our Lord Jesus Christ has done." 1 Corinthians 15;57 (NIRV) 

--Darell (and Jan)

The Goat Man

Archie Davis first appeared in Hemlock Hollow in the late 1930s.  Where he came from, nobody ever knew. However, it was rumored that he had come from Bingham Center. He lived in the empty barn on the old Charlie Day farm four miles from town. After living there for several years, the barn was torn down, so he moved into an old granary with a few boards over the one corner for shelter. He had a few heads of goats that he milked and ate. That is how he got the name of the "Goat Man". Some claimed Archie was an Indian because his face was smooth and he didn’t shave. 

Archie would come to town once a month with a grain sack to carry home his monthly supplies. The general store owners, Stanley and Helen Pearsall, told me that in the wintertime Archie would arrive around 8:00 a.m., about an hour after the store had opened. He would stand for hours in the same spot without changing his position or saying a word to anyone. About 4:00 p.m. he would start home on foot, carrying his supplies in the sack slung over his shoulder. His monthly supplies were always the same and always ordered in the following order: 3 packages of Red Man chewing tobacco, 3 boxes of unsalted soda crackers, oatmeal, and two or three other small items.

After Archie had lived there several years, one summer day a nice Cadillac drove up in front of the store. A nicely dressed woman came into the store. She told Stanley that she lived in Wellsville, NY and was Archie Davis’ sister. She told him that if Archie ever needed anything to give it to him and then send her the bill. Stanley said that Archie never used that privilege.

The townspeople always believed Archie would be eaten up by his dogs since all they had to eat was what they could find in the woods. Hunters told that when they killed a deer and dragged it out, the dogs would follow their track, back to where they had killed and gutted the deer, and then eat the innards. Some of Archie’s dogs’ mouths were full of porcupine quills. The game commissioner came one year and shot 33 dogs that had no license.

After many years of living up Hemlock Hollow in very poor conditions, Archie moved to Coneville. He lived there three or four years in an old chicken house just west of where Torrey’s Cheese, Ice Cream and Pizza Shop are now. Rev. David Derk, pastor of Oswayo and Coneville at the time, had made friends with Archie when he lived in Hemlock Hollow. One day he stopped in to see Archie in Coneville and found him dead.

--Darell

This story from Dad's trove of memories awakens some of my own memories. As young children, visiting during the summer, my grandparents would take us for Sunday drives on the back roads of Potter County. Occasionally, we would drive past the Goat Man's place up Hemlock Hollow and they would tell us how he lived alone out in the woods. We would peer out the windows in hopes of seeing him or his goats. I don't think we ever saw him (he may have moved by then), but it was always a marvel to me how someone could survive without anyone else around.

"A friend loves at all times.  They are there to help when trouble comes."  Proverbs 17:17 (NIRV)

--Jan

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My Thanksgiving Memories

Childhood memories of Thanksgiving Day at 41 Maple Street, Oswayo are filled with a sense of excitement and joy. It was a day for the family to gather and to get caught up on one another's lives. Since it was a three-hour journey for us to Grandma's house, this particular holiday was sometimes the only day of the year that we would get to see the cousins, aunts, and uncles all in one place. The little house built in the early 1900s would be bustling and bursting at the seams once everyone got there--all twenty of us. We have been blessed that everyone was always glad to see each other. According to my childhood recollection, although there were occasionally heated discussions, there wasn't any relative that made the holiday difficult or uncomfortable. 

Mom and Dad would either pack us up the day before to spend the night sharing a couch with a sister at Grandma's, or wake us early the morning of to make the trek, sometimes in snowy blizzards. The trip seemed so long. To pass the time we would sleep, taking turns to stretch out on the backseat or curl up on the floor, a sister on each side of the "hump" of the car (no seatbelts). It was always cozy and warm with blankets and pillows.

When we got restless, Mom would have us sing. We would sing hymns by heart like "Power In The Blood", "Showers Of Blessing", and "When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder". A special treat would be when Dad led heartily in his tone-deaf singing voice with "What can wash away my sin?" while Mom and we girls would answer with "Nothing but the blood of Jesus". He usually had to be coaxed into singing his solo because he knew he couldn't carry a tune! As we drove through the Kinzua Dam area, snow hanging on the trees, Mom would sing "Over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house we go..." We girls would merrily chime in.

All the way there we would be on the lookout for bear, deer, turkeys, bunnies, and other wildlife--counting to see who could spy the most to tell Grandpa about them when we arrived. Midway, we usually stopped in Smethport for gas, to use the restroom, and if we were lucky--a bottle of Pepsi-cola (Dad's all-time preference)! The closer we got to Oswayo, Dad would remark about how the hills were getting taller and taller, reminding us to watch for "Old Baldy" in Millport where Great-grandpa Brizzee had helped clear the trees many years ago. Once we made it to Coneville, Mom always scolded Dad for speeding up the last few miles "home". We all knew he was anxious to get there, as were we. Once the car came to a stop in the driveway, we were all smothered in Grandma's hugs and kisses. 

Preparations would start days before. All the womenfolk would bake up loaves of bread and favorite pies. My grandmother would get up in the wee hours of the morning to put the stuffed turkey into the oven and to peel potatoes. By the time everyone got there, all the windows were steamed over and the house was filled with tantalizing fragrances. Tables would be set up in the living room, leaving very little wiggle room for rambunctious grandchildren to skirt around. Grandma would put a large pedestaled glass bowl of red grapes and a relish tray of pickles and olives on the main table. After everyone had nibbled at them, Grandma would fain surprise that they were gone before we even sat down for dinner! Once the turkey was roasted and ready, my Grandpa or Uncle Bob (or both) would be called to the kitchen to carve the bird(s). Like vultures, we children would try to snitch the crispy skin and tasty morsels while they worked.

The table would be laden with lots of delicious steaming dishes. Grandpa would sit at the head of the table with his back to the large picture window and lead us all in giving thanks to God for family, food, and blessings. One thing about my Grandpa Harris was when giving thanks to anyone, he always made it more personal by using the first-person pronouns "I thank you" or "We thank you". Once the prayer was ended, the table hummed with our voices as dishes were passed. We enjoyed turkey, stuffing ("dressing"), mashed potatoes with gravy, squash, green beans, applesauce, cranberry sauce, bread (white, banana-nut, zucchini), fruit salad tossed in real whipped-cream, jams and apple butter, and pies (pumpkin, mincemeat, apple, rhubarb, and cherry). The end result was always feeling stuffed and lethargic with grateful hearts.

With so many crammed in the house, it would get stuffy and hot. The front and back doors would get propped open to let in cool air, but both adults and children would get a little stir-crazy. While some might sit in the parlor to watch the Thanksgiving Day parade or a football game on TV, others ventured outside to take walks, climb trees, build snowmen, go sled riding, or shoot guns for some target practice. Sometimes we would gather around Grandma's piano to sing or at the tables to play games like Scrabble, Checkers, Gin Rummy, or Flinch. 

At the end of the day, we were all tuckered out and sad to say good-byes. Our family usually spent at least another night before returning home since we had to travel the farthest. However, when it came time for us to leave, Grandma and Grandpa would stand in the window or on the front porch to wave us off. She would have tears streaming down her face, and wipe them with the handkerchief she waved in the air as a farewell. We would watch out the car window, waving to her until we were passing the church, going out of town, and could no longer see her standing there waving the hanky. As children, we didn't understand the tears, but we did understand love. 

Sadly, not everyone can claim such wonderful childhood memories. In truth, even my memories have been candy-coated to a certain degree with my mind allowing unpleasant ones to fade into shadows. For many people, the holidays are filled with painful, unforgettable memories and scars. If this has been your experience, I pray God will bless you with better memories and experiences this year and in the future. May this Thanksgiving be one when all of us focus on the greatest blessing of all--Jesus Christ! 

"Give thanks no matter what happens. God wants you to thank him because you believe in Christ Jesus." 1 Thessalonians 5:18 (NIRV) 

On behalf of Dad and myself, I wish you all a Blessed Thanksgiving! 

--Jan

The Hermit

A man named Carl Pineo was known as "The Hermit" by the local people. He lived a mile and a half up Zale Lawton Hollow outside of Oswayo (three-fourths mile beyond the old schoolhouse and the Po Car Camp, formerly the old Rufus Johnston farm). He lived alone in an old shack about a mile from the nearest neighbor. I don't believe he was ever married.

About once every two weeks Carl would walk to town to get his mail which was mostly magazines and weekly newspapers and to get a few groceries. Other than those visits to town, he seldom saw anyone.  He may have seen a hunter or two during hunting season, but he kept to himself most of the time.

For a time, Carl would also come to town to celebrate Memorial Day and the Fourth of July.  Year on the Fourth of July, he got drunk while in town and fell asleep on the hotel porch.  While he was knocked out, some mischievous young men wrapped him in red, white, and blue crepe paper decorations and soaked him with a water hose.  When he woke up, the dyes from the decorations had left him colored red, white, and blue.  He never came to town for the holiday again.

This kind of treatment of someone shows a lack of compassion and is just plain meanness.  At the time, as a young man, I didn't understand this and found the story amusing.  However, the Apostle Paul admonishes us to "Love one another deeply.  Honor others more than yourselves" (Romans 12:10 NIRV).  May God fill us with love for others and show us how to honor others more than ourselves.  

--Darell (and Jan)