Family Cemetery at Glyndon

Each Memorial Day the gravesite is groomed and bedecked with fresh flowers and an American flag. But most of the year it is quiet and plain and tucked in the edge of the woods.



The monuments here are as follows: headstones for Reuben Brigham and Marjorie Snowden Brigham; a bench given by University of Maryland class of 1908; and a sundial "from friends in agriculture."



The inscription on Reuben's headstone is "The Old Knight's Vigil" by Alfred Noyes:

ONCE, in this chapel, Lord,
Young and undaunted,
Over my virgin sword
Lightly I chaunted,
" Dawn ends my watch. I go
Shining to meet the foe.

" Swift with Thy dawn," I said,
Set the lists ringing !
Soon shall Thy foe be sped,
And the world singing :
Bless my bright plume for me,
Christ, King of Chivalry.

War-worn I kneel to-night,
Lord, at Thine altar.
O, in to-morrow's fight,
Let me not falter.
Bless my dark arms for me,
Christ, King of Chivalry.

Keep Thou my broken sword
All the long night through
While I keep watch and ward.
Then, the red fight through,
Bless the wrenched haft for me,
Christ, King of Chivalry.

Keep, in Thy pierced hands,
Still the bruised helmet.
Let not their hostile bands
Wholly o'erwhelm it.
Bless my poor shield for me,
Christ, King of Chivalry.

Keep Thou the sullied mail,
Lord, that I tender
Here at Thine altar-rail,
Then let Thy splendour
Touch it once . . . and I go
Stainless to meet the foe.



The inscription on Marjorie's headstone reads, "To thine ownself be true."

July 1971

It was June and a beautiful afternoon as I slipped across the parking lot apparently unseen. Then came the well recognized voice of the Duty Guard. "Watch that cuttin' out early and leaving the rest of us to carry on!"

This meant a little slow-down and a valued minute or two of conversation and rich, homey philosophy. You can't beat it for relaxing frayed nerves, cutting life into focus.

He didn't know I was about to spend some money I didn't really have. Some things are essential even if you are scratching for the change it takes to accomplish the responsibility. That's why I was wishing for the new LFRA Buyers Guide, wondering where I could find the best price for something appropriate, and asking myself why money seemed so hard to come by.

So it's June and we began our "expert" conversation with that fact; after we had covered the weather. June is the month when we spend more money for gifts than any other except December. There are the many graduations and weddings by the dozen. Those bright eyed girls are experts at removing ribbons and seals and colorful wrapping from multi-shaped packages. The guys just look dumbfounded, ill at ease or like the floor should separate and make room for them in the basement.

Then there is Father's Day and more is spent on the old guy than the family release to make Mother's Day perfect for the best. It isn't that we think more of Dad, he just costs more to buy for. Mom likes the blouse, stockings, perfume, some costume jewelry and a pretty card with the right words.

But Dad is something else...a shirt and tie perhaps, something for libation purposes, golf togs or equipment, possibly a rod and reel, or a box of cigars. It costs to keep Dad and it costs more to find a card that will tell the truth about him than it does to shower love on Mom.

I reached down in the pocket which had been worn through by change and car keys. Nothing there! The other side held the reassuring feel of soft leather over three or four dollars. How was that going to guy a graduation present today?

It was easy to drop the question and start with the days when we had even less in our pockets, if we had pockets at all. June was that great month when you kissed school goodbye for a few weeks and headed for the Patuxent River. There were mud slides, tadpoles, dragon flies, snapping turtles, box turtles, frogs, eels, sun perch, catfish, craw dads, black snakes, a raft and rapids, land nettles on bare legs and the buzz of a mosquito.

The home cut poplar pole, an earthworm, hook, sinker, some green line and a cork from the vinegar jug did the trick for the young fisherman. If they didn't bite there was always skinny dippin in the deep hole, until the neighbors came around the bend in a canoe very much unannounced.

How about the heavy rains and the river jumping the banks, coming across the marsh and right up to the mouth of the pup tent placed on the knoll just off the woods road. We answered that one by jumping in the main current at Mink Hollow and flying downstream to Snells Bridge. Over and over this thrill was repeated and nobody was lost in the flood or snagged by an under the water tree limb. The blankets got wet and moldy, dry wood was hard to come by, and the oil off the top of a jar of peanut butter served as lubricant for the pancake griddle.

This was the same river, still a little muddy, and it was June 1971. The Guard had wanted me to tell him about our neighborhood minister and the river.

There had been a confirmation class for 10 teen age youngsters. They learned about baptism and were given a choice. The unanimous decision for kids whose parent had been sprinkled some years before was immersion. Now the choice was where it would be done. The prompt verdict was the Patuxent River behind Dave Brigham's place. Shades of the Jordan and a man named John.

It had rained and the banks were muddy, right where the old slide used to be. The minister walked out in his good shoes and suit, waist deep in the center stream. Parents and friends sang "Shall We Gather At The River" and one by one the white robed ten made their sometimes shaky way to a memorable experience and a new hope. Once safely back on shore, a fellow who had not been as unsure as the rest peeled off his robe to reveal a T-shirt bearing the inscription "Aqua Club - Expert Swimmer."

So, it is June and I am in the parking lot going to buy a graduation present. The Guard waned to know if it was high school or college. He was coming out next year from high school. I told him this was a college graduate in nursing, the third to finish the University. My three were all out of the nest and going along. That's why I was ducking out early to get a present for the last one. It was June I told him.

"My, my," he replied, "You must feel like the man that has gone and swum the river!"

Funny how a guy can put it so you just can't help but understand it. There is so much uphill in life and we struggle along. All of a sudden it is over, done, accomplished and completed. The old river that you fought so hard to swim has been conquered. Now you are on the other side. What's the next move?

Turn around and start back. You must cross again. Life is always a struggle and both Home and Success are on the other side.

David L. Brigham
Executive Director

Annals - Volume V

I am in the process of combing through The Annals of Sandy Spring for family history tidbits and started with Volume V, 1929-1947, edited by Herbert Osburn Stabler, published by American Publishing Co., copyright 1950. As always, I welcome corrections and additions. First I have pasted in a couple branches of family tree for your reference, followed by passages from the Annals. For convenience sake, I designated the generations by their relation to me. I have highlighted individuals mentioned in Vol. V of the Annals.

Third Great Grandparents

Lieutenant Nicholas N. SNOWDEN, son of Nicholas SNOWDEN and Elizabeth WARFIELD, b. 7 Apr 1828 at Montpelier in Laurel, MD, d. 6 Jun 1862, near Harrisonburg, VA, married 28 May 1850 at Philadephia, PA, Henrietta STABLER, daughter of William Henry STABLER and Eliza THOMAS, b. 27 Jan 1829, Sandy Spring, MD, d. 21 May 1907, Sandy Spring, MD
1. Emily Roseville SNOWDEN b. 7 Apr 1851, m. Gerard HOPKINS
2. Marion SNOWDEN b. 28 Jun 1853, d. 7 Jan 1857
3. Lucy SNOWDEN b. 13 Mar 1855, m1. ___ LEA, m2. William W. MOORE
4. Helen SNOWDEN b. 7 Apr 1857, m. Dr. Augustus STABLER
5. Francis SNOWDEN b. 19 Mar 1859, d. 11 Sept 1936, m. Fannie Brooke STABLER
6. Mary Thomas SNOWDEN b. 3 Jun 1861, d. 31 Dec 1932, m. Charles Dorsey WARFIELD

John STABLER, son of Thomas Pleasants STABLER and Elizabeth P. BROOKE, b. 13 Apr 1820, married 8 May 1851 Alice Ann BENTLEY, daughter of Joseph E. BENTLEY
1. Florence M. STABLER b. 24 Jun 1852, m. Charles M. BOND
2. Alice Evelyn STABLER b. 14 Aug 1854
3. Cora STABLER b. 6 Oct 1856
4. Anna B. STABLER b. 24 Feb 1859
5. Frances "Fannie" Brooke STABLER b. 25 Oct 1860, d. 25 Mar 1943, m. Francis SNOWDEN
6. Eliza Brooke STABLER b. 15 May 1863
7. John STABLER Jr. b. 15 Nov 1865
8. Alice Bentley STABLER b. 8 Jan 1868
9. Evangeline STABLER m. William H. GILPIN

Second Great Grandparents

Arthur Amber BRIGHAM, son of John Winslow BRIGHAM and Mary Rebecca PUTNAM, b. 6 Oct 1856, Marlboro, MA, d. 12 Nov 1938, Lakeland, FL, married 6 Oct 1881 Charlotte Warren BRIGHAM, daughter of Dennison BRIGHAM and Sarah WEEKS, b. 1857, Marlboro, MA, d. 1933
1. Reuben BRIGHAM b. 13 Dec 1887, d. 6 Dec 1946, m. Marjorie SNOWDEN
2. Ruth BRIGHAM b. 12 Sept 1892

Francis "Frank" SNOWDEN, son of Lt. Nicholas SNOWDEN and Henrietta STABLER, b. 19 Mar 1859, d. 11 Sept 1936, married 18 May 1886 Frances "Fannie" Brooke STABLER, daughter of John STABLER and Alice Ann BENTLEY, b. 15 Oct 1860, d. 25 Mar 1943
1. Elsie Brooke SNOWDEN b. 4 Mar 1887, d. 21 Dec 1945
2. Miriam SNOWDEN b. 15 Apr 1891, d. Nov 1950, m1. Samuel P. THOMAS, m2. James H. LAMPTON
3. Edward SNOWDEN b. 13 Dec 1893, m. Nellie KELLEY
4. Anna McFarland SNOWDEN b. 27 Jul 1896, m. Louis Theodore "Doc" BUSSLER
5. Marjorie SNOWDEN b. 1888, d. 1970, m. Reuben BRIGHAM

Great Grandparents

Reuben BRIGHAM, son of Arthur Amber BRIGHAM and Charlotte Warren BRIGHAM, b. 13 Dec 1887, Marlboro, MA, d. 6 Dec 1946, Chicago, IL, married 7 Jun 1915 at Ingleside in Sandy Spring, MD, Marjorie SNOWDEN, daughter of Frances SNOWDEN and Francis Brooke STABLER, b. 1888, d. 1970
1. David Lewis BRIGHAM b. 1916, d. Oct 1999, Olney, MD, m. 28 Dec 1938 Gladys BEALL b. 7 Oct 1915, d. 29 Dec 2008, Mt. Airy, MD
2. Francis Snowden BRIGHAM, deceased, m. Dorothy LEMON, deceased
3. Marjorie Amber BRIGHAM b. 22 Feb 1922, still living, m. 18 July 1944 Robert Whitney MILLER, deceased
4. Arthur Putnam BRIGHAM b. 1928, d. 22 Jan 1992, Bella Vista, AR, m. Helen CASE, still living

Excerpts from The Annals of Sandy Spring, Volume V, 1929-1947:

p. 16 - Sept. 15 [1930] a large number of people visited the unusual and beautiful detura plants of Elsie Snowden at Engleside [sic]. During the night of bloom two plants had 90 bell-shaped blooms, six inches in length and three inches in diameter, and very fragrant. There was also a night-blooming cereus with fourteen blooms. The garden lovers of the neighborhood visiting this unusual sight felt that this was the most beautiful display of floraculture ever seen in Sandy Spring.

p. 47 - Mary Snowden Warfield was my friend and the friendship strengthened and deepened with the years. As a homemaker, a mother, and a friend she lived a life so fully ripe in good deeds, she must have been tenderly gathered into the great Garner House of the Lord when on December 31 [1932], with the dying year, she passed into the Great Beyond. She lied in the family lot in Oak Grove Cemetery at Glenwood, Maryland.

p. 84 - The obituary for Miriam Snowden Lampton is tucked into the pages here, about October 1935. Although the article contains no date of death, I believe that she died in November 1950. She was married to Samuel P. Thomas and widowed before she wed James H. Lampton. The text of the notice is as follows:

Miriam Lampton Buried Saturday. Burial services were held Saturday for Mrs. Miriam Snowden Lampton, of Ashton and Washington, D.C., at the Friends Meeting House, Sandy Spring. A native of Montgomery County, Mrs. Lampton was employed by the Atomic Energy Commission in Washington. She was the daughter of the late Mr. and Mrs. Francis Snowden, of Ashton. Death came at the Sibley hospital in Washington last week, following a brief illness, brought on by a severe brain hemorrhage. Mrs. Lampton is survived by her two sons, Evan S. Thomas, of Seattle, Washington, and Edward P. Thomas, Wheaton. She is also survied by two sisters, Mrs. Reuben Brigham [Marjorie], of Ashton, and Mrs. Louis T. Bussler [Anna], also of Ashton, and a brother, Edward Snowden of Sandy Spring.

p. 106-7 - Francis Snowden was born at "Avondale" near Laurel, Maryland, March 19, 1859. His grandmother, Elizabeth Warfield Snowden, tiring of so large an establishment as "Montepelier" [sic] divided her possessions among her six sons and six daughters reserving five hundred acres of the manor upon which she built a brick house and asked her son Nicholas to live with her. He was to inherit it at her death. In 1850 he took his bride Henrietta Stabler there. When the Civil War was declared, Captain [sic] Nicholas Snowden and his militia company joined the Confederate ranks, providing their own horses and uniforms. He lost his life in an engagement at Harrisonburg, Virginia, June 6, 1862. Three years later his mother died and Henrietta Snowden returned to her birthplace, Sandy Spring, to occupy, with her five children "Ingleside" a house her father Wm. Henry Stabler built for her and there Francis was reared.

He married Fannie Brooke [Frances] Stabler May 18, 1886 in Sandy Spring Meeting House. They went to "Ingleside" to live with his mother where their four daughters and one son were born. There they lived for a little over fifty years. He passed away on September 11, 1936, and was laid to rest at Sandy Spring. (E.T.S.)

p. 137 - E. Clifton Thomas bought a tract of woodland adjoining Ashton from Fanny B. Snowden [1937-8].

p. 148-9 - Nov. 12th [1938]. Arthur A. Brigham, aged 82 years, died in Lakeland, Florida, where he had gone to spend the winter; his remains were interred a few days later in Woodside Cemetery. Mr. Brigham was a Past Master of Massachusetts State Grange. For a time he was Professor of Agriculture at the Imperial College of Agriculture at Sapporo, Japan. Later he received the degree of Doctor of Philosophy at Goettingen, Germany. He then occupied the position of Professor of Agriculture at the Experiment State of Rhode Island. He went from there to Ithaca, New York, where he became general manager of the Cornell Incubator Co. he then moved his family to South Dakota where he became the organizer and first Principal of the South Dakota School of Agriculture. Mr. Brigham was largely responsible for the establishment of the Grange in Rhode Island and was instrumental in the formation of two in Florida.

p. 151 - Dec. 28th [1938]--David Lewis Brigham, son of Reuben and Marjorie Brigham and Gladys Beall, daughter of Forest and the late Flora Dill Beall were married in Rockville. The young people have gone to live in Des Moines, Iowa, where David has a position.

p. 181 - On June 7th [1940], the Brigham children gave Reuben and Marjorie a reception in honor of their 25th anniversary.

p. 194 - [April 1941] About this time Reuben and Marjorie Brigham returned from an extensive trip to Mexico and the South.

p. 198-9 - [August 1941] Through Reuben Brigham, it seems the Agricultural Dept. has become interested in the Sandy Spring Community as an advanced social and agricultural section; so for several months they have been preparing an educational film based on our past history and the efforts of the three farmers' clubs and especially the Farmers' Convention from which so much of our advancement in agriculture has emanated. They have taken shots on farms at Rockland, Plainfield, Willow Grove, The Highlands, Oakley, The Briars and perhaps some others along with some of the old Meeting House and Community House where the first Farmers Convention was held over seventy years ago. When completed and rounded out it ought to make a very creditable showing of the records and accomplishments of Sandy Spring farmers.

p. 205 - Augustus Stabler was born at Roslyn, near Brighton August 25th, 1858. As a young man he took courses at Johns Hopkins University and studied medicine at Howard University. On September 18th, 1884 he married Helen Snowden and went to live in Lawrence, Mass. where he practiced medicine. In Sept. 1888, he returned to Roslyn to live, bringing his wife and two children, Isabel and Austin. He practiced medicine and farmed until the summer of 1911, where he entered the service of the U.S. Dept. of Agriculture. In 1915 he went to Fairfax County, Va. where he operated a nursery with his son Henry. He died March 27th [1942] and is survived by five children, Isabel S. Moore, Sydney Snowden, Henry, Nicholas Snowden and N. Graham Stabler. Interment was at Woodside. (E.H.L.)

p. 207-8 - Fannie B. Snowden and daughter Elsie again spent the winter [1941-2] at the home of her daughter and son-in-law Louis and Anna Bussler at Ashton.

p. 210 - I feel it is fitting that we should record here the names of our neighborhood boys who joined one or another branch of our Nation's services: Francis Brigham... [1941-2]

p. 224 - Frances Brooke Snowden, daughter of John and Alice Bentley Stabler, was born Oct. 15th, 1860 at "Oreola" near Brookeville, Md. She received her education in the schools of Philadelphia. Returning to Sandy Spring she made her home at "Harewood" with her cousins Arthur and Anna Stabler, and from there was married May 18th, 1886, to Francis Snowden. As a bride, she went to Ingleside where she lived until her death on march 25th, 1943, having survived her husband by over five years. She faithfully performed the duties of the busy wife and helpmate and gave the loving care of a mother to their five children. The latter years of her life were spent as a partial invalid. She was always cheerful and uncomplaining, an outstanding example to all who knew her. (M.S.M.)

p. 252 - The following is a list of the Community young men that are now serving their country in one or another branch of the armed forces. These are the boys and men that went in during the year [1943-4] or who were inadvertently missed from last year's record: ...Francis Snowden...David Brigham...Francis Brigham...

p. 257-8 - On July 18th [1944] Marjorie Amber, daughter of Reuben and Marjorie S. Brigham was married to Staff Sgt. Robert Whittley Miller, son of Mr. and Mrs. Robert W. Miller of Silver Spring, Maryland. Later, Sgt. Miller was stationed at Ascension Island with the weather division of the Army Air Corps and Marjorie went to Camp Swift for basic training in the Army Nursing Corps as a 2nd Lieutenant. During July the Fifth War Loan was largely oversubscribed by the Sandy Spring section.

p. 260 - On Aug. 28th [1944] a telegram was received by Louis T. Bussler from the War Department bearing the sad news that his nephew Paul Bussler had been killed in action in France on Aug. 11th.

p. 262 - Oct 21st [1944] Virginia, daughter of Edward and Nellie Kelley Snowden was married to Mr. Rudolph Bouquet, son of Mr. and Mrs. G.P. Bouquet of Houma, La.

p. 271 - A list of Sherwood High School graduates discloses the fact that during the past year [1944-5] the following have entered the service of their country:...Marjorie Brigham Miller.

p. 278 - About this time [Sept. 1945] Marjorie Brigham Miller went to the Pacific Coast in her capacity as an Army nurse; she sailed from New York by way of the Panama Canal.

p. 279 - Elsie Brooke Snowden passed away Dec. 21st [1945] after a brief illness at Garfield Hospital in Washington. The daughter of Francis and Frances Brooke Snowden, she was born at Ingleside March 4th, 1887. After training at the Corcoran Art School in Washington and the Academy of Fine Arts in Philadelphia, she twice traveled abroad on scholarships from the Philadelphia Academy. She received recognition in the United States and Europe for her landscape and portrait paintings, and the Corcoran School honored her with its Annual Gold Medal. Interment was in the Friends Meeting House grounds at Sandy Spring. (E.T.S.)

p. 301 - On Dec. 6th [1946] Reuben Brigham died suddenly on a trip to the midwest where he had gone in his capacity as an extension worker in the Agriculture Department. This huge, somewhat gaunt, somewhat Lincolnesque fellow, who lumbered along like an old fashioned farm wagon, was biological mass of electronically fortified atoms. Born in Marlboro, Mass. in 1887, he grew up all over the world, wherever his father taught agriculture. In 1908 he graduated from the University of Maryland and spent the next five years farming in this state.

In 1913 he turned up as secretary and general assistant to Pres. Harry J. Patterson of the University of Maryland. Two years later he became Maryland's extension editor and also assumed charge of boys 4-H Club work. In 1917 he entered USDA to develop visual and editorial materials for extension work. He himself developed into a human institution. But all that doesn't say it. He was more than a man. He was a force. Warm, human, friendly, dynamic, as earthy as his pure farmer name, he was known all over the nation where many times he seemed to be the Department of Agriculture personified. No place was too small, no individual too inconsequential for him. He passed none by. Indefatigable, boundless in energy, incredible in production, outstanding career employee, Nature's own nobleman, a product of the soil--is interests never once flagged--until Dec. 6th when Reuben Brigham took off for more boundless horizons where his restless mind will find many unfinished tasks. (From USDA.)

p. 308 - On Friday, Feb. 7 [1947], a "Talent Show" was presented in the [Sherwood] auditorium. Barbara Woodward won first prize with a ballet dance, Dolores Beall, who sang and accompanied herself on the piano won second prize and the Heil sisters were third when they harmonized "Ol' Buttermilk Skies."

p. 308-9 - Among the transfers of property during the year [1946-7]... Robert W. and Margery [sic] Brigham Miller built and moved into a house on a portion of the Brigham property...

June 1971

It was just a short article in a promotion booklet. I took time to see it had been written in, for and about conditions in another country. Nevertheless, I could hum the opening lines:

"Everybody's talkin' at me
Don't hear a word they're sayin',
Only the echoes of my mind."

The message kept ringing as I walked alone on the streets of the Capital City of the greatest nation on earth.

These words were from the them song of the film Midnight Cowboy telling of a lonely young man in a big city. The small town boy had lost his ability to communicate and thereby the essential ingredient to keeping one spiritually alive. To me they asked what happened? Why do we experience such uncertainty? What is there for us to hold to? What gives life direction? Who sets the pace? Who leads? Why make the effort? Who botched up what? Why am I urged to straighten out some of the mess?

Several of my friends had a vital discussion over a simple lunch. Can't you hear the reaction? What's the use of writing a column, or even a letter? People don't take time to read anymore. A glance through the newspaper and never a good book!

We are in a great rush to nowhere and we have the means to pay for things to be done for us. Why fight it?

These thoughts don't help when you are looking for the right way to communicate something you want to say or that you hope folks will want to hear and relate to.

Then came the bold. YOU ARE PART AND PARCEL OF THE PILL GENERATION. It all began with that aspirin your mother gave you years ago. Certainly your kids have known nothing else. Every shape and color; in fancy containers and plain; but always handy.

True, it all began with mom. She tranquilized by reading stories children liked to hear, reciting poetry by the hour and re-telling those "hand-me-downs" from previous generations. All were designed to relate to the peace of mind and the education of the upcoming generation.

We were supposed to be a little poor, maybe a little hungry, clothes a little worn and torn, hands grubby on occasion, and discouragement part of a regular diet.

If treatment was needed, there was a home remedy--like lemon, sugar and kerosene for coughing spells; iodine that stung for cuts and scratches; mustard plaster for congestion; argerol and ipicac [ipecac] (can't spell 'em but sure can taste 'em); and then the spring "line up kids and we'll clean out the winter"--each in turn gulped a tablespoon of castor oil.

What happened to the Sunday visits? The picnic trips with the whole family? Are there still places to go and things to do--as a family? Do we need a pill to escape or to relax? Do we need another to sharpen the intellect, to reassure, to give courage? Whey do I need to be confused to boost my morale and pull me out of a depression? My old Sunday School teacher used to say, "Don't count sheep; talk to the Shepherd." Sometimes that worked.

So many are worried. Things are already distorted and we either don't know how to face our times or we don't want to. It's so easy to pick up the many-sided safety valve "The devil made me do it." There's a pill for everything and we are the generation of pills.

It's tough to relate when the terms are over your head and the kids see you and your limited exposure as the root of the problem. To you a trip is travel, a pot belongs under a bed, and hooked is something mom did to make a rug.

The youngsters can't relate to the hydraulic ram, the wooden water tank, a stopped overflow and water from the attic to the basement with plaster falling behind. Coal oil lamps and candles, chunk stoves and feather ticks, soap stones and crocks, three point two and Goose Goslin, all need explaining.

So they come back with kicks and distortions, pot and love-in, beautiful and Hotline, grass and hard rock music, Mary Jane and free love.

Maybe we need to find the time to study our vocabulary. We who are older have made the journey and we know. Those who are younger will soon be the ones who can recount the experience and just hope the even younger generation will not go quite as far and fast as they did. But they know they will!

Somehow, I don't mind telling you about a 19 year old boy and his dad. They related and understood, although the language was a shade different. The young fellow came down to breakfast on Sunday morning. He was greeted with "Son, you turned in mighty late last night." There was a ready explanation for the 2:00 a.m. arrival. "Don't you see, Dad, the ole Model-A froze up and she boiled over. I took the radiator cap off to see what happened and it blew off in the big snow drift over on the middle pike. I looked and looked but never did find it again."

The response was unexpected. "Yes, Son. Well some years ago your Mother and I were courting. We had old Nancy to the buggy and came around past Highland and over Mink Hollow Road. On the way the lap robe bounced out of the back of the buggy, and it took up tow hours to locate that darn thing."

Sometimes there are older people who have a story to tell. I remember the same 19 year old boy who managed to get pifilated on 3.2 beer when he was two years below the legal age limit for purchase and consumption.

I have seen parents who must cap a difficult and frustrating week with "just a few" to put the memories away for a spell. Then they wonder what makes a kid seek escape from a hard and frustrating week at school with a slightly different approach.

There is a role for recreation in our society. Simple things like walks in the woods, picnics and croquet. Maybe we can read a little to relax. When did you learn you last poem or listen to the birds sing early in the morning.

There is a free society and we do have a free life. There is even freedom to self-destruct if we don't find the way to relate and communicate and love in the broadest sense.

Don't look for answers in terms of economic or social levels. Race and religion are both involved and concerned, nor have they found all the answers in the image of man or the hope of faith. When I was a youth I asked for guidance. My college professor said, "You are often guilty by association." From my mother came, "A man is known by the company he keeps." Dad got right to the point, "If you lie down with dogs, you will get up with fleas."

David L. Brigham
Executive Director

Auction Alert

Elsie Brooke Snowden (1887-1945) -- or "Aunt Elsie" as we think of her -- is hitting the auction block on Sunday, September 27th, 2009, at 10:00am EST, at Sloans & Kenyon located at 7034 Wisconsin Avenue, Chevy Chase, MD 20815, 301-634-2330. The painting to be auctioned, shown here, is called "Misty Market Scene." It hung in my grandparents' bedroom for years. "Misty Market Scene" is an oil painting, unframed, 41" x 54". The painting is in Sale Number 45, as Lot Number 1337, minimum bid of $350, with an estimated auction value of $700-$900. According to the auctioneers:

Snowden, from Ashton, MD, studied painting at the Corcoran School of Art and the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, where she won the prestigious Cresson Traveling Scholarship in 1914. Exhibiting regularly with the Society of Washington Artists and Washington Watercolor Club, and at the Corcoran Gallery Biennials, Snowden became known for her atmospheric landscapes and city scenes.

It would be great to see this stay in the family. Makes me wish I had some disposable income! Here is a link to the auction house and to the details about the auction lot.
--Barb

Confederate Field Trip

Lieutenant Nicholas Snowden was the last in our branch of the Snowden line to be born (7 Apr 1828) at Montpelier Mansion in Laurel, MD. He was a graduate of Georgetown University and enlisted in the Confederate army in 1861. Nicholas served in the Ist MD Infantry, Company D and fought in the First Battle of Manassas. In the Battle of Harrisonburg, he charged into gunfire from Yankee troops concealed behind a fence. He fell pierced by three balls and died in the arms of his cousin Capt. James R. Herbert. The date was June 6, 1862. General Jackson posthumously awarded Nicholas the rank of Major for his valor in battle. He was briefly buried next to the Harrisonburg road and then interred at Union Church Cemetery in Cross Keys, VA. In 1884 his body and tombstone were transferred to Loudon Park Cemetery in Baltimore, MD, to the Confederate Hill section.

There are several historical markers that commemorate the Battle of Harrisonburg. I borrowed a map from Google Maps and indicated the locations of three of the relevant markers. You will note that all three of the sites are related to the place of death of General Turner Ashby. It is doubtful that we would be able to determine the place where Nicholas died with any certainty. But we do know that he was fighting under Ashby, that they both perished in this battle, and that Nicholas was temporarily buried near the Harrisonburg road (present day Route 11). So we can infer that Lt. Nicholas Snowden met his death in the vicinity of the triangle made by the three historical markers, just south of the present day campus of James Madison University. Since the battle map shows the Ist Maryland at the south end of the Confederate line, perhaps Lt. Nicholas Snowden was fighting closer to Port Republic Road.

A-30 - Located on Route 11 (S. Main Street) Harrisonburg, VA, between Edgelawn Drive and Port Republic Road. This marker indicates that General Turner Ashby, the "Black Knight," fell 1.5 miles east of the marker site, on Chestnut Ridge. The text of the marker reads:

"Where Ashby Fell. A mile and a half east of this point, Turner Ashby, Stonewall Jackson's cavalry commander, was killed, June 6, 1862, while opposing Fremont's advance."

A-35 - Located on Route 11 (S. Main Street) in Harrisonburg, VA, between Miller Circle and Rocco Drive, near the railroad crossing. The text of the marker reads:

"End of the Campaign. Here Stonewall Jackson, retreating up the Valley before the converging columns of Fremont and Shields, turned at bay, June, 1862. A mile southeast Jackson's cavalry commander, Ashby, was killed, June 6. At Cross Keys, six miles southeast, Ewell of Jackson's army defeated Fremont, June 8. Near Port Republic, ten miles southeast, Jackson defeated Shields, June 9. This was the end of Jackson's Valley Campaign."

Chestnut Ridge - Located on Turner Ashby Lane, off of Neff Avenue (as direct access from Port Republic Road has been closed). The text of the marker reads:

"Chestnut Ridge - Death of Ashby - 1862 Valley Campaign. On June 6, 1862, the vanguard of Union Gen. John C. Frémont’s force, pursuing Confederate Gen. Thomas J. 'Stonewall' Jackson’s army south up the Shenandoah Valley, reached this point near Harrisonburg. Jackson’s rear guard, led by Gen. Turner Ashby, engaged Federal cavalry here and captured Col. Sir Percy Wyndham, the English commander of the 1st New Jersey Cavalry who had earlier boasted that he would 'bag Ashby.' The 1st Maryland Inf. and 58th Virginia Inf. set an ambush for the Federals. At about 6 p.m., however, Union forces appeared not in the road as expected, but in a concealed position near Ashby’s force. When Ashby’s horse was shot from under him, he rolled off the mount, regained his footing and ordered his men to stop shooting and use the bayonet, shouting, 'Charge, men! For God’s sake charge!' Then a Union bullet pierced Ashby’s side and passed through his chest. He fell dead while his men cleared the Federals from the woodline. The next day, Ashby’s body lay in state in the Frank Kemper house in Port Republic, where a brief funeral service was held. Jackson viewed the body there in private. Although Ashby’s lack of discipline had drawn Jackson’s sharp rebuke two months earlier, he later praised Ashby. 'As a partisan officer I never knew his superior,' Jackson wrote. 'His daring was proverbial ... his tone of character heroic, and his sagacity almost intuitive in divining the purposes of the enemy.'"



Ashby's forces were defending Jackson's progress from the rear and did battle with Fremont's cavalry led by General George Bayard. Among that Yankee force were the Ist Pennsylvania Rifles, Company B (a.k.a. the Bucktails, the Morgan Rifles, Kane's Rifle Regiment, 13th Pennsylvania Reserve, etc.). The Bucktails claim credit for felling Turner Ashby after his horse was killed and he continued to do battle on foot, although contemporary accounts also claim that Ashby was a victim of friendly fire. The Bucktails history website features an excerpt from the Southern Historical Society Papers called the Fight with the Bucktails, which I have reproduced here in full. It appears to have been composed by General Bradley Tyler Johnson for the Southern Historical Society Papers 10 (1882: Jan/Dec) 103. The emphasis is my addition to highlight portions that refer directly to Lt. Nicholas Snowden.

Memoirs of the First Maryland Regiment
FIGHT WITH THE BUCKTAILS

On the evening of the 5th of June we arrived early at Harrisonburg, and leaving the Valley road turned to the left and went into camp. For the last two days we had been marching leisurely along closing up stragglers, and feeding the horses and men pretty well with the provisions the country afforded. Fremont had been very pertinacious, and was continually on our rear. From Strasburg up, the artillery---either of the pursuer or pursued---sounded continually in our ears from day-light until dark. But as we diminished our pace he slackened his, and indicated that though eager to strike a flying foe, he was not so well prepared to fight one which faced him. Since leaving New Market, such had been our attitude, willingness to fight him whenever the position suited us. On Friday morning, June 6th, we marched late. General Steuart had been relieved of his cavalry command and returned to the " Maryland line," consisting of the regiment, the Baltimore Light Artillery, Captain Brockenbrough, and Captain Brown's cavalry company, which had joined us just after the fight at Winchester. He had also assigned to him the Fifty-eighth, Forty-fourth, and two other Virginia regiments.

That morning being the rear-guard we were late starting, and delayed by the enormous trains which were carrying off the plunder of the expedition, by the afternoon we had not marched more than three miles. The head of this column was then at Fort Republic, five miles distant, where a bridge spans the Shenandoah. While the cavalry under Ashby had dismounted, during one of those numerous halts, which render the movement of a long column so tiresome, a regiment of Yankee cavalry suddenly dashed through them. Quick as the Yankees were, however, they were not quick enough for Ashby, who instantly formed and charged, routing them totally, and capturing prisoners and horses.

Among his prizes was Sir Percy Wyndham--an itinerant Englishman-a soldier of fortune, who though without rank or position at home, had served in the Italian campaign of Garibaldi, and was a man of gallantry and courage. He was eagerly caught up by the Lincoln Government, when personal courage and dash were at a premium, made Colonel of cavalry, and sent off to the Valley to meet Ashby. His only interview with the Virginia Cavalier was when he was riding bareheaded behind one of Ashby’s troopers---a prisoner. He expressed profound disgust at the arrant cowardice of his men, to which he attributed his whole disaster. As soon as Ashby chased the remnants of the Yankees back he returned, and reported to General Ewell that he had discovered an infantry force coming rapidly on us, and showed him that by a quick detour through the woods he could strike them in flank. Ewell, delighted at the prospect, ordered Steuart's command back at once. The regiment in the order of march in the morning had been last. In thus reversing the direction it should have been first, but having been placed to support a battery, two Virginia regiments got ahead of us. The Colonel however soon managed to cut in. and got up next to the Fifty-eighth Virginia. Ewell and Ashby rode at the head of the column---the latter explaining to the former the nature of the ground, the position of the roads, and the direction of the enemy. Though too far off to hear what he said, his dark face was lit up in a blaze of enthusiasm, and his eloquent gesticulation indicated his meaning as intelligibly as words. "Look at Ashby," said the Colonel to the Adjutant, "see how happy be is!" In a few moments we entered a thick wood, then changed direction in line of battle. Companies D and G of the regiment out as skirmishers under Ashby's immediate command. Moving cautiously along, in the quiet woods, every sound was exaggerated in the stillness, and at last without a moment's warning the Fifty-eighth gave way and ran back. " Steady there men, steady First Maryland," shouted our Colonel as pistol in hand he headed the broken mass. " Form behind there!" pointing to our solid ranks. The panic was only momentary, one of those strange accidents which occur in battle, and almost immediately the Fifty-eighth re-formed and went on. In a minute the sputter of the skirmishers was heard immediately followed by the volley of the Fifty-eighth. "Charge, Colonel." cried General Ewell, who was just by us---" charge men," said Colonel Johnson, and down the hill we went with a cheer, in a run. But we found no enemy. The fire on our right was excessive we were made to lie down, but balls began exploding and smacking among the men on the rocks. "Those Virginians are killing our men." Off galloped General Ewell and the Colonel, both to stop the firing, but directly returned finding out they were Yankee bullets. " I see one, Colonel can I kill him," cried Southoron of Company H. Assent was given, and he pulled away, but his cap snapped. Coolly putting on another he fired. "There I've killed you," said he. "Let us charge them, let us charge them, Colonel," came from several. " Very' well," said he. "Up men, forward, file right, march"-and as soon as the colors came into line, " By the right flank charge!!!” in a voice that could be heard far above the crash of small arms. The right companies and colors went in on a run, the left companies catching up, they closed with the Bucktails, who were strongly posted behind a worm fence full of undergrowth and briars, and drove them out, and as they ran across the open field, poured a most deadly fire into them, which melted them away like frost before the sun.

We afterwards heard that of over 200 Bucktails who went into that fight only fifty came out. After driving them off, a brigade of infantry was seen a short distance off, and a six-gun battery of brass pieces with an apparently large force of cavalry. They had had enough though for the evening, and it only being General Ewell's instruction to check Fremont sharply, he retired. The fight, short as it was, had cost us dearly. Ashby's horse fell at the first fire, immediately jumping to his feet, he half turned round to the Fifty-eighth, in front of whose second company he was brandishing his right hand with his pistol, ordering them to charge. The confusion was such that they did not obey him, and he fell, a ball entering his right side just above his hip and passing diagonally upward, came out under his left arm, showing that the ball was fired by someone lying down. Though in front of the Fifty-eighth, he was not more than thirty yards from the enemy, who were lying flat behind the fence. The opinion of Lieutenant Booth, who saw him fall and was closer to him than anyone, is that a shot from the Yankees killed him. We lost Captain Michael S. Robertson, Company I, killed instantly; as he fell, he said, " Go on, boys, don't mind me." He was a native and resident of Charles County, one of our oldest families---wealthy and highly educated. At the same time fell Lieutenant Nicholas Snowden, Company D, from Prince George of that well known family. At the time of the Baltimore outbreak he a cavalry company, which he immediately put under arms until, like so many others, he found Hicks had betrayed the State, and he came to Virginia. No braver, or more gallant gentlemen than these have died for Southern Independence. With them fell six or eight more dead, Color-Sergeant Doyle was shot down, Color-Corporal Taylor caught the colors, but soon went down, the next Corporal to him caught them, but instantly falling, Corporal Shanks, Company H, seized them, lifting them arms length above his head, carried them safely through the fight.

Colonel Johnson had been that afternoon to see General Jackson, and was in full uniform, rather an unusual sight in that army where few officers wore any sign of rank. As the regiment charged, his horse was shot in the shoulder; then directly received in his forehead a ball, intended for his rider, and as he fell, another in the pommel of the saddle. His uniform doubtless procured him these compliments, as he was not more than thirty yards from the Bucktails. Captain Nicholas, Company “G,”- found Lieutenant-Colonel Kane, their commander, sitting on a stump with a broken leg, who invoked the Captain to shoot the cowardly hounds who had run off and left him. Although this fight was quickly over, it was one of the bloodiest of the war, considering the time and number engaged. Our loss was about one hundred killed and wounded, and that of the enemy probably one hundred and fifty in all, including prisoners, of whom there were very few. Dr. Johnson, the surgeon of the First Maryland, the next morning had Lieutenant Snowden buried near the Harrisonburg road, and his company buried Captain Robertson in Union church-yard by the brick wall opposite the gate the first church on the road from Harrisonburg to Port Republic. Feelings of sorrow at the loss of so many friends strongly impressed us all, and Saturday was quietly spent in taking position and going into camp near the Shenandoah. General Jackson had the day before directed the Colonel to pick out a good camp and recruit his men. " Drill them four hours a day," said he. Friday evening we had one drill, which has just been described. Fate had reserved such another in store for us.

May 1971

It was a conference of sorts...In fact, it was a big meeting under the auspices of the President's Committee for the Employment of the Handicapped. People came from all over the world, for disability and rehabilitation cannot be walled in for only a few to endure or enjoy.

Recreation entered in as wheelchair athletes demonstrated the fruits of competition and the therapy of physical activity. Fertile minds exposed ingenious devices and a grim determination to achieve in spite of...The strength, desire and grit of the real man was never better demonstrated. You can do so much with so little. We who have so much with which to meet life may indeed feel shame.

Somehow you are convinced recreation is something you must earn. And what was happening on the streets outside? Not all of the handicaps and disabilities were in the hotel. Not all of the mental capacity of the city was assembled on the concourse level. Much was on the streets of our Capitol. Vets against the War, controversy about sleeping in a national park, women talking about liberation for the ladies, youngsters saying that the establishment failed to recognize the grey area where truth really lies, and the obvious contrasts...

There are the beards, the mutton chops, the blue jeans, sandals, bare feet, thongs, micro-mini skirts and maxi coats on the same frame, and an unmistakable gleam in a number of old eyes. Who is right and who is wrong? Who's old fashioned and who just plain nuts?

They are sleeping in the park tonight. The supreme judicial body of our greatest country on the globe says they cannot. But, they are and they did and I guess they will. Some are physically handicapped. They left a part of themselves overseas. They were in the battle. They have a right to speak. I'm talking about the Vets. There are times when I'm proud to be identified as one of them; and then there are times when I want to join the kids who ask some of the authorities to justify all of it. My response about a different war and purpose has a hollow ring. I want a real answer for it all.

These amputees and the paraplegics who zip about and do things. These guys who complain so little and smile so much. I carry a big torch for those who find one of the greatest challenges in life is working with the handicapped.

The flag must have been flying from my pole as I went to lunch with three friends - all handicapped. One had to take the elevator because crutches don't work on escalators. Another has a victory over cancer and calls himself one of those successful colostomies. The third had just received the golden word and his handicap was unemployment.

Our placemat was "The Story of Our Flag." In the center was the Star Spangled Banner of Fort McHenry fame. On the flanks were such colorful reminders of our heritage as the Viking Flag, Cross of St. George, Royal Standard of Spain, French Fleur-de-Leis, British Union, Bunker Hill, Rattlesnake, Alamo, Confederate, Betsy Ross Flag, and more...

In bold letters the caption spoke - "I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

I kept my thoughts to myself, but I thought! Yes, we are a long way from home sometimes. And we are a long way from base, and truth, and right, and giving, and dedication, and devotion, and faith, and trust, and charity, and love. We must be worthy of our keep and earn what we enjoy. Maybe recreation means re-Creation.

Congressman Jack Marsh of Virginia shared a situation report with me some months ago. I drew on this as I ate with my friends who have suffered, with men who had known war, and with the symbol of our great America adding nourishment. Why are we there? Why here? Who has a right to question? Was it earned? Will it be?

The emerging nation in question has a population of about two and one-half million spread along a coastline of about twelve hundred miles. Forests are perilous due to hostility of indigenous natives.

Loyalty to the home government is unquestioned but for the past few years, civilian unrest has been growing due to economic exploitation of local products and markets.

Continued petitions by the populace for a revision of policy have been rebuffed. This has led to outbreaks of armed conflict against the regular troops throughout the territory. The dominant nation is a foremost world power. Their army, although below wartime strength, nevertheless, is substantial in size.

There is no political cohesion or political stability. Privately, many influential supporters of the insurgency are pessimistic of success and some blandly forecast defeat, at best hoping for some compromise which more radical leaders are fast making impossible.

Knowledgeable foreign observers predict a quick, crushing military defeat, with severe penalties to Rebel leaders as an example to others harboring aspirations of Independence.

THE TIME -- 1775. THE PLACE -- America.

David L. Brigham
Executive Director

This I Believe

NPR's revival of the 1950s This I Believe series concluded earlier this year. Selected essays from the project were shared on NPR from 2005 to 2009. Among them was Frank Miller's essay "That Old Piece of Cloth," originally aired on September 11, 2006. The following transcript is reproduced from this page, and you can listen to Frank reading his essay here.

















(Photograph from Collider.com)

That Old Piece of Cloth
by Frank Miller
September 11, 2006

I was just a boy in the 1960s. My adolescence wasn't infused with the civil rights struggle or the sexual revolution or the Vietnam War, but with their aftermath.

My high school teachers were ex-hippies and Vietnam vets. People who protested the war and people who served as soldiers. I was taught more about John Lennon than I was about Thomas Jefferson.

Both of my parents were World War II veterans. FDR-era patriots. And I was exactly the age to rebel against them.

It all fit together rather neatly. I could never stomach the flower-child twaddle of the '60s crowd and I was ready to believe that our flag was just an old piece of cloth and that patriotism was just some quaint relic, best left behind us.

It was all about the ideas. I schooled myself in the writings of Madison and Franklin and Adams and Jefferson. I came to love those noble, indestructible ideas. They were ideas, to my young mind, of rebellion and independence, not of idolatry.

But not that piece of old cloth. To me, that stood for unthinking patriotism. It meant about as much to me as that insipid peace sign that was everywhere I looked: just another symbol of a generation's sentimentality, of its narcissistic worship of its own past glories.

Then came that sunny September morning when airplanes crashed into towers a very few miles from my home and thousands of my neighbors were ruthlessly incinerated -- reduced to ash. Now, I draw and write comic books. One thing my job involves is making up bad guys. Imagining human villainy in all its forms. Now the real thing had shown up. The real thing murdered my neighbors. In my city. In my country. Breathing in that awful, chalky crap that filled up the lungs of every New Yorker, then coughing it right out, not knowing what I was coughing up.

For the first time in my life, I know how it feels to face an existential menace. They want us to die. All of a sudden I realize what my parents were talking about all those years.

Patriotism, I now believe, isn't some sentimental, old conceit. It's self-preservation. I believe patriotism is central to a nation's survival. Ben Franklin said it: If we don't all hang together, we all hang separately. Just like you have to fight to protect your friends and family, and you count on them to watch your own back.

So you've got to do what you can to help your country survive. That's if you think your country is worth a damn. Warts and all.

So I've gotten rather fond of that old piece of cloth. Now, when I look at it, I see something precious. I see something perishable.

April 1971

Life is what we work for, talk about, and hold tight to. Often the thread is thin and sometimes there is a regeneration. Spring does follow the dead of winter. We breathe deeply of the fresh breezes and express pleasure in being alive. We look for the first swelling buds and the initial spikes of green forcing their way between the frosty layers of earth. Yes, it is spring and life leaves that dormant state and flows fully again.

The old walnut was dead. At least is was very far gone, and there was no hope of recovery. It stood at one corner of the church. As if showing that even a tree cared about such things, it leaned toward the sanctuary. The trustees who know about such things felt the seventy-five year vigil had been sufficient. The patriarch must come down.

Then came the bulldozer to push out the stump and do the grading. Some sleeping grubs and a few sluggish fishing worms were turned up. They worked their way back into the earth, to shelter, protection, and survival. Even the stump of the tree fought to hang on, preferring to rot rather than be rudely dislodged.

My week had been like this. The economy was tight both from a personal and business standpoint. I had listened to someone say austerity a dozen times. He wanted me to know the sky was falling, and I had best shore up the dike if a part of my existence was to continue. I thought of this as I cut that walnut.

For a couple years my heart and effort has gone into a federation of associations know as the League. Many have tried to breathe life and strength into LFRA. They have pleaded with the larger members who do not need the strength of numbers to reap benefits to lend a hand for the lift they can give the smaller organizations. To the lesser agency associations, they have said the banding together gives strength and purchasing power. Use the Buyer's Guide for discount buying and as you save for yourself you will strengthen the League.

If you are planning a trip, make your travel arrangements through an LFRA contact. This will save you money and help the League do more for its members. Read the Recreation Register and see that others in your association receive a copy. They are still free.

My mind had wandered, and I returned to my tree. The stump and one of the larger sections of trunk were side by side. I knelt to view the ants searching for retreat. There it was!

At the edge of the more than 75 rings...the wood, each denoting a year of life, there was a half inch of new and green growth. The tree was as dead as dead could be. No doubt about it.

But to the trained eye, that tree fought to the bitter end. When it was 98 percent destroyed there was still the will to struggle and fight on. One of the basics is survival, and life is what life is all about.

David L. Brigham
Executive Director

Origins of Troop 264

This history was written by David L. Brigham, the "First Scout" of Boy Scout Troop #264, and it appears on the Troop's homepage:

Troop 264 had its start from a summer 4-H State Camp near Blacksburg, Virginia. Ernest Thompson Seton, the greatest of nature writers including Wild Animals I Have Known, was a special invited guest. His role was to tell Indian stories and experiences at the campfires. He brought his friend Dan Beard, who had set the stage for the Boy Scout movement in the United States. My Dad, Reuben Brigham, was the U.S. Director of Information for the Agricultural Extension Service and had arranged for Thompson to participate. This was the early summer of 1927.

The inspiration of visits with these two youth and nature leaders during the idle daytime hours resulted in long talks about the Scouting program and all it provided young men age twelve and above. As a result, Brigham returned to his American Legion Post in Sandy Spring and asked his fellow veterans of World War I to help him set up a Troop for this community. They agreed, providing he would be Scoutmaster. The Washington Council sent professionals to assist from their very small staff. By fall, a Troop with 12 to 15 boys was in place. Dad was Scoutmaster, I was a Tenderfoot Acting Patrol Leader, and the Troop with a Sandy Spring address was #130.

There were Montgomery County Camporees, summer journeys to Camp Roosevelt on the Chesapeake Bay, fourteen mile hikes, fifty yard swims upstream in the Patuxent, wet wood and only two matches, first aid, cold nights, wet bodies, tests, games, and pledges (which I still remember). We sang Clemantine and went on Snipe hunts, climbed hills and slid down banks, wore shorts most the year and britches once in a while.

The troop lost the original number when several years of inactivity occurred. Charlie Hines served first as Assistant Scoutmaster. John Bancroft later served for several years. Original Scouts who come quickly to mind include Tom Hallowell, Francis Brigham, Fairman and Billy Fussell and Malcolm Thomas. Dick and Johnny Thomas had had other Scouting experience and for a period acted as Senior Scouts and advisors for us.

Norman Price Post #68 of the American Legion has been the sponsor of a Boy Scout Troop for nearly sixty years and during most of that period the present Troop 264 is in the record. It is a matter of mutual satisfaction when man and boy, Scout and Scouter, organization and organization, can work together for God and Country in a community of rich heritage and strong faith.

David L. Brigham

March 1971

One of the young folks reads this column. I know, for it was he who placed me squarely behind the eight ball with, "Dad, it was interesting, but what did it have to do with the League?"

This was a time to talk about life, the uncertainty of each undertaking, the personalities involved in most organizations, the goals and dreams of officers and committees, and the relationship of time, talent and efforts of individuals. The League is a great example. So many have worked so hard and done so much, yet the struggle always lies ahead.

The problems are compounded with growth. There is more and more to absorb, understand, and solve. The first bruises, cuts, and frustrations pile on. Suddenly, you find that not everything objectionable is dissipated by someone patting you on the head or kissing where it hurts. Now that you are somebody, you have problems and at least you must share in their solution.

Most are aware of the urgent inner call to push forward to the next plateau. Never are we quite satisfied or secure.

So it has been for this association of some 150,000 federal employees, many of whom do not know a thing about the League or its function. They only hear indirectly that it might lend a big hand if you are planning a trip or wanting to buy something at a discount. Who really relates to the other 54 agencies and their employees? We have our own niche and that's enough for anyone to chew.

Like the young man with all the dreams and ambitions, the League has grown and stumbled. It has plunged forward, made great strides, fallen and gotten up to try again. The potential is always the incentive. That many people and that many agencies and a central interest and dedication--Think of the possibilities if that many spoke with one voice. Yes, mountains could be moved. Hope springs with some real justification.

The League is not at that point yet, but our little pattern of a life example must take a man into those years he calls the prime of life. He has learned that the late teenager who was ready to save the world at 18, is now 30 and can't save fifty cents.

The mortgage payments and the rent are always due; the grocery costs mount; the car needs unexpected repairs; there must be insurance in case something happens to the head of the household...

We want the best for each one and can't always convince each component that we are doing the best we can, have stretched the resources and income to the best advantage, and next year we will have the time and the money to take that long anticipated trip with the entire family. Yes, the pot is at the end of the rainbow.

If the struggle of life for an individual never ends as long as there is life, what of an organization that is in effect a loose federation with many of the components more interested in the immediate backyard of the own R&W?

Such thoughts took me back to boyhood. Old Charlie Scott sat on an oak stump. He had been laying a flagstone walk around our house, and he was both hot and tired. A young chap sat at his feet to show him the toad frog which had hopped out from under the porch.

Gently he lifted the toad into the cup of a powerful, calloused hand. Then he explained the superstition that warts would come off the toad and onto the hand of the little boy who picked him up. No, not on a big, tough, black hand. After all, warts are white. That's what he said anyway.

I didn't believe Charlie, and I told him so... But I did watch my hands for a couple of weeks. And I do go out the same door I came in when I'm visiting someone, and don't want to break a friendship. Charlie said I should do that.

Maybe some of you will understand that I do not believe any of this stuff about being born under a certain sign that makes me jovial, and bright and capable and understanding and happy and willing and... I just glance at the Farmer's Almanac to find out when the bad storms are coming. I don't set any store by what it says.

I don't think there is anything to Friday the 13th, but I was in a banzai attack in World War II on April 13th, a Friday. I had an accident on such a day and was in the middle of a severe wind storm on another...and in the center of a violent confrontation between two strong arm groups of men on a Friday the 13th. I don't believe in such things.

On my desk is a round, black object. It has a white circle with a black eight in the circle. They call it an eight ball. If you shake it soundly and ask a question it give an answer. I don't really believe the things it indicates... Or do I?...

I asked about the prospects for the League of Federal Recreation Associations in 1971 and turned up the window in the bottom of the eight ball. There seemed to be an eye looking back at me. Then, an eyelid opened and closed a couple of times (I saw the eyelashes). Then suddenly it was there. The answer which I must believe flashed forth...OUTLOOK GOOD.

David L. Brigham
Executive Director