Some wag has said, "For God so loved the world that He did not send a committee." Another has dealth with the peculiar construction of the camel and expressed the conviction this was a horse designed by a committee.
The great American game has become service on committees. If we want something lost in the shuffle, buried and forgotten, with only a little backwash, we turn it over to a committee. If we want others to share responsibility in the decision or a criticism, we spread the base by assigning a committee to take the matter under advisement.
Conversely, we can focus the best talent and dedication on a worthy objective by carefully selecting those who will relate to all the angles and come in with the answer.
Don't frighten and frustrate yourself by thinking out the number of hours in each month you spend on committees, sub-committees, and committee related activities. When someone calls or taps you on the shoulder and says, "Will you serve on the committee to...," is the your mouth always set to say YES?
Is you family proud of your committee involvement? Do they ever see you at home? Are they just as glad it is this way? Or, are they constantly upset and nagging because you are never home.
There is always a reason for dealing with a subject. The trigger which fired this shot was a mention of the hours and hours given by individuals serving as committee members in the interest of the League of Federal Recreation Associations, all 62 of the agency members, and the 150,000 individual federal employees who are known as participants.
Committee members are always subject to the judgement of those who do not like the conclusions, wish they had been asked to serve, or who know they could have done a better job. So, who can you please and why do you agree to serve? Probably it's because you care, you have pride, and you know that someone must do or nothing is done.
Oliver Wendell Holmes once said, "A man should share the action and passion of his times at the peril of being judged not to have lived." Each generation has an obligation to make whatever sacrifices are necessary to preserve the great privileges which were given us.
We now know that a Constitution to be followed must first be written, a Prayer to be answered must be given, and to be gained Membership must first be sought.
Now you have the inspiration and you are ready to reach out for your challenge and opportunity. You want to serve on a committee.
Fine, we have just the spot for you. To be successful as a committee member, you must be a man of vision and ambition: a diplomat, after-dinner speaker, after-dinner guzzler and a night-owl.
You must continue to work all day, take phone calls all night, and be on the job next morning early.
Oh yes, you must be able to please all organizations and auxiliaries. You must be both a Democrat and a Republican, be a man's man and a ladies man, a model husband and father, a devoted son-in-law, a good provider, psychiatrist, manager, and magician.
You must attend all meetings, tournaments, union sessions, funerals and visit jails, hospitals and credit unions. In you spare time you will be expected to review the constitution, by-laws and organizations structure of LFRA.
When you have related to your committee assignment, given it the best you have, there will be those whose soft tones will credit you with sincerity of purpose. Your loyalty will be cited and friends will recognize that some pretty ordinary persons have become very substantial leaders because you had the uncanny ability to get teamwork out of the group.
But you are not unique. There have been many committeemen. Historically, each one has been caught up in the ageless pattern of freedom, which is always revolutionary. Freedom is always alive, marching on many fronts... The ferment of freedom never ends.
David L. Brigham
Committeeman Extraordinary
Showing posts with label 1971. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1971. Show all posts
January 13, 2010
January 5, 2010
September 1971
The Water Witch was novel to some who reviewed this spot last month. It caught Jim's eye and he traced the Executive Witch to his den. If you don't believe in coincidence you can hop off right here.
It all began back in Iowa. A young Maryland lad had just gone to the tall corn State to do some broadcasting, some news reporting and some public relations. He wound up with the old AAA (Agricultural Adjustment Administration) and met Jim of the AP (Associated Press). Who could forget the battered felt hat, the crisp verbiage and the urgency of effort fostered by hungry days as a stringer and cub reporter. We related like a magnet and he was soon with USDA and AAA also.
Both boys moved from Iowa at the request of Uncle Sam. One found a home in Missouri and the other in Minnesota. They kept in close touch and crossed paths with some frequency. Then came the big events. Two baby girls arrived within days of each other. Both struggled for life and lost. The two families were drawn even closer together.
The surprise was a little understandable when the two wives compared notes. Yes, indeed they were. So within a few weeks of each other a couple of young men saw the light of day. They were worth waiting for! Within ten days of the even the Missouri Dad was heading for infantry service in World War II. Before leaving he called Jim to tell him of the "Greeting from the President."
You guessed it... Jim had just enlisted in the Seabees. Both wound up in the Pacific until it was over there. And who do you think made it home fro Christmas in 1945? Both did!
Next the Christmas card from Jim to Dave in 1946. Mine's due in April, when's yours? A hurry up reply informed Jim the other arrival had been scheduled for May. And so the two girls began their almost joint journey.
No one would expect you to believe there was a girl apiece the following summer. There were other similarities like the wives being sick at the same time and the work changes which sent both to the Washington area a few days apart. Then, as the years and activities have a way of doing such relationships in, the two families lost contact.
There was a call last week. Jim wanted to speak to Dave. He had read a column in a thing called the Recreation Register. It was about a witch or something. Was this the same Dave? Well... Well, if it is... Well, Jim, how old is your Grandson? Well, how did you know I only had one grandchild and it is a boy? Well, that's easy. I have a grandson myself and my oldest daughter is the Mother... Same with you I'm sure? Exactly the same!
It was country talk about finding water and digging a well that brought us back together. We began our renewed visit with well... And when he asked something about LFRA and my interest in the future of this association of and for federal employees, it was easy to use the same thought collecting delay, well...
I had to begin with the deep well of despair some of us have battled hard to overcome. There was the shortage of interest, the limited funding and the primary responsibility of willing horses to their own agency associations rather than to an overall League.
It made you feel like the frog in the bottom of the well who thought the entire world was the patch of sky he could see when he looked up. We didn't get the full view and begin to realize the potential until we looked over the top edge of the well.
Then, there was a the bucket of cream lowered par way down into the well to keep cool. Two frogs fell in. One pushed the panic button, folded up and sank to the bottom. The other kicked, scrambled and struggled. He churned the cream, created a pat of butter, hopped upon it, gave a great leap from this floating perch and escaped the well.
Is there any word we use more? This is the most convenient and versatile of the four-letter words. How do we begin when the boss says, "Why haven't you...?" Perhaps the wife would like to know what kept you at the office? Or, the preacher why you missed services? What's the reason payment is a little slow this month? Did you get a check-up? There's a problem with your kid and we'd like to know... The first thing to come to mind as we stall for the answer to meet the situation is WELL... Well eh!
There was Jacob's Well..the Well of Bethlehem, Abraham, Issac and the "well of living water." There is the Artesian well form which water flows of its own pressure. Some are purported to go to the well once too often and find only disappointment.
There are tales of those who bought an interest in a dry well. Others invested in prospecting for a productive oil well. Some made it with a well and some lost it. There's been many sunk in or drawn from a well.
Well, how are you feeling? Well, I hope!
There are other "wells" like Fargo and Wellington and wellsweep, wellbeing, well meaning, welldoer, welldisposed, well born, and well head. The last supplies water to a spring or well and the flow begins the circuit.
Why dwell upon the well? Jim started it and I want to tell him why I pursued it. You see, even before we heard of each other, I found the right girl and gave her a ring. She ran through the big farm house to the back porch where her Dad was taking off his boots. The skinny college lad followed...at a most reasonable distance.
"Look Daddy, look!" I guess he saw the little diamond. The response drifted back into the kitchen, "My Lord child, that boy's not dry behind the ears yet!"
Then you know who came on the scene and gulped..."Well...Sir...ah...eh...mmmm...."
And the 230 pound, six foot plus recognition followed:
"WELL...That's a deep subject when you get to the bottom of it."
David L. Brigham
Executive Director
It all began back in Iowa. A young Maryland lad had just gone to the tall corn State to do some broadcasting, some news reporting and some public relations. He wound up with the old AAA (Agricultural Adjustment Administration) and met Jim of the AP (Associated Press). Who could forget the battered felt hat, the crisp verbiage and the urgency of effort fostered by hungry days as a stringer and cub reporter. We related like a magnet and he was soon with USDA and AAA also.
Both boys moved from Iowa at the request of Uncle Sam. One found a home in Missouri and the other in Minnesota. They kept in close touch and crossed paths with some frequency. Then came the big events. Two baby girls arrived within days of each other. Both struggled for life and lost. The two families were drawn even closer together.
The surprise was a little understandable when the two wives compared notes. Yes, indeed they were. So within a few weeks of each other a couple of young men saw the light of day. They were worth waiting for! Within ten days of the even the Missouri Dad was heading for infantry service in World War II. Before leaving he called Jim to tell him of the "Greeting from the President."
You guessed it... Jim had just enlisted in the Seabees. Both wound up in the Pacific until it was over there. And who do you think made it home fro Christmas in 1945? Both did!
Next the Christmas card from Jim to Dave in 1946. Mine's due in April, when's yours? A hurry up reply informed Jim the other arrival had been scheduled for May. And so the two girls began their almost joint journey.
No one would expect you to believe there was a girl apiece the following summer. There were other similarities like the wives being sick at the same time and the work changes which sent both to the Washington area a few days apart. Then, as the years and activities have a way of doing such relationships in, the two families lost contact.
There was a call last week. Jim wanted to speak to Dave. He had read a column in a thing called the Recreation Register. It was about a witch or something. Was this the same Dave? Well... Well, if it is... Well, Jim, how old is your Grandson? Well, how did you know I only had one grandchild and it is a boy? Well, that's easy. I have a grandson myself and my oldest daughter is the Mother... Same with you I'm sure? Exactly the same!
It was country talk about finding water and digging a well that brought us back together. We began our renewed visit with well... And when he asked something about LFRA and my interest in the future of this association of and for federal employees, it was easy to use the same thought collecting delay, well...
I had to begin with the deep well of despair some of us have battled hard to overcome. There was the shortage of interest, the limited funding and the primary responsibility of willing horses to their own agency associations rather than to an overall League.
It made you feel like the frog in the bottom of the well who thought the entire world was the patch of sky he could see when he looked up. We didn't get the full view and begin to realize the potential until we looked over the top edge of the well.
Then, there was a the bucket of cream lowered par way down into the well to keep cool. Two frogs fell in. One pushed the panic button, folded up and sank to the bottom. The other kicked, scrambled and struggled. He churned the cream, created a pat of butter, hopped upon it, gave a great leap from this floating perch and escaped the well.
Is there any word we use more? This is the most convenient and versatile of the four-letter words. How do we begin when the boss says, "Why haven't you...?" Perhaps the wife would like to know what kept you at the office? Or, the preacher why you missed services? What's the reason payment is a little slow this month? Did you get a check-up? There's a problem with your kid and we'd like to know... The first thing to come to mind as we stall for the answer to meet the situation is WELL... Well eh!
There was Jacob's Well..the Well of Bethlehem, Abraham, Issac and the "well of living water." There is the Artesian well form which water flows of its own pressure. Some are purported to go to the well once too often and find only disappointment.
There are tales of those who bought an interest in a dry well. Others invested in prospecting for a productive oil well. Some made it with a well and some lost it. There's been many sunk in or drawn from a well.
Well, how are you feeling? Well, I hope!
There are other "wells" like Fargo and Wellington and wellsweep, wellbeing, well meaning, welldoer, welldisposed, well born, and well head. The last supplies water to a spring or well and the flow begins the circuit.
Why dwell upon the well? Jim started it and I want to tell him why I pursued it. You see, even before we heard of each other, I found the right girl and gave her a ring. She ran through the big farm house to the back porch where her Dad was taking off his boots. The skinny college lad followed...at a most reasonable distance.
"Look Daddy, look!" I guess he saw the little diamond. The response drifted back into the kitchen, "My Lord child, that boy's not dry behind the ears yet!"
Then you know who came on the scene and gulped..."Well...Sir...ah...eh...mmmm...."
And the 230 pound, six foot plus recognition followed:
"WELL...That's a deep subject when you get to the bottom of it."
David L. Brigham
Executive Director
October 9, 2009
August 1971
They were both big men and the muscles vibrated in the forearms above the clublike hands. One had just called the other a water witch and I backed up to the honeysuckled fence row. A boy didn't belong too close at that moment.
A kid raised in the country learns some words the city kids never hear. A clodhopper or just a plain clod; a briar jumper or a hick; a hawg jaw or an apple knocker; a slew foot or a hay seed. I knew 'em all and could take each one from the bigger kids who had walked a furrow or jumped a black berry patch while chasing a rabbit. It was routine to slop the pigs and easy to use a long stick to shake the apples off the tree.
You don't mind being a hay seed when you have mowed, raked, loaded, forked and worked hay into the mow of the old barracks. Still fresh in memory are the wheat shocks, the pitch forks, the bundles pitched up to the top of the wagon, and the "first and last snake" tossed up with the last bundle. Tass Carter sailed off that topped out load and was running before he hit the ground. He said something about k-k-killin' the next boy who did that trick. But, he was kidding, or was he?
Anyway, this was country talk and farm boys understood. There was always work and time for fun. The oversized, old felt hat was a trademark. The ever present hound could handle the rabbits, quail, squirrels and even a skunk. The collie brought the cows in for milking and there was always a horse to ride or work as the occasion might demand. There was no real need for parks, golf courses, organized recreation, and planned activities by associations and organizations.
Most of us lived in the country and knew what those folks who drove out to see us on Sunday were called. We whispered about city-slickers with fancy suits and tourin' cars. They needed watching a little but they didn't have the real smarts a county kid comes by kinda natural.
We showed 'em the birds and bees and the stock and the chickens. What was the use of talking about things you lived with every day of your life. If they were half-way with us, we steered them around poison ivy, beggars lice, sumac and chuckle burrs.
It was fun to try the young fellow from town our on corn silk, Indian cigars, grape vine and Brown's Mule. Smokin' and chewin' was all the same, they got white, wobbly and then sick to the stomach. That was good clean fun and recreation the old way. We didn't mean no harm by it and they had something to talk about when they got back to the city.
I guess they talked about Dad rollin' his own and the checked dress Mom had made from some feed sack goods. We got in our licks about the patent leather shoes, the striped pants and the starched collars.
But all of us enjoyed the coming and the going. Those city words that identified a nationality and degraded many first generation Americans were lost on our untrained ears. It was better that way. We walked the country roads and they walked the city streets.
Once in a while the youngsters were afraid of the dark and needed some reassurance. But there was always someone to make you feel safe and not much happened to make newspaper headlines. I guess it happened some but when you have a piece of hay in the corner of your mouth and whistle up your dog a fellow feels mighty comfortable and secure.
So I watched the two big men. You don't call a man a Water Witch, even in the country and get by with it. There had to be the inevitable collision.
The one stood sort of sizing up the antagonist and then fondled the forked peach stick. It looked sort of like a sling shot without the leather cup and rubber innertube strips. I thought of David and Goliath. Perhaps history would repeat. Then the startling first words, "It's a gift, sort of like extrasensory perception."
The forked stick is held in both hands with the bottom of the Y pointed upward. It is known as a Divining Rod and when the gifted carrier walks over a good stream of water the stick turns over and points to the water. Next the "witch" takes a limber twig and holds it over the spot selected by the peach stick.
Like a pump handle the twig dips down and then comes back to the starting position. Each circuit indicates 10 feet and if it bows 8 times you must go 80 feet to strike water. At the end of the measurement the twig will shake sideways before staring over again.
Fantastic? Perhaps it is. But, this same man told me where to drill and that I would need to go down 128 feet to strike water. I believed and hit at 126 feet. We have good water in a country well and if you understand the meaning of the title even a Water Witch can be a mighty regular guy.
If some of my city colleagues feel like being a LFRA Witch, we'll let them use a Diving Rod to find discounts, travel opportunity, recreation and more members. Success is fun!
David L. Brigham
Executive Witch
A kid raised in the country learns some words the city kids never hear. A clodhopper or just a plain clod; a briar jumper or a hick; a hawg jaw or an apple knocker; a slew foot or a hay seed. I knew 'em all and could take each one from the bigger kids who had walked a furrow or jumped a black berry patch while chasing a rabbit. It was routine to slop the pigs and easy to use a long stick to shake the apples off the tree.
You don't mind being a hay seed when you have mowed, raked, loaded, forked and worked hay into the mow of the old barracks. Still fresh in memory are the wheat shocks, the pitch forks, the bundles pitched up to the top of the wagon, and the "first and last snake" tossed up with the last bundle. Tass Carter sailed off that topped out load and was running before he hit the ground. He said something about k-k-killin' the next boy who did that trick. But, he was kidding, or was he?
Anyway, this was country talk and farm boys understood. There was always work and time for fun. The oversized, old felt hat was a trademark. The ever present hound could handle the rabbits, quail, squirrels and even a skunk. The collie brought the cows in for milking and there was always a horse to ride or work as the occasion might demand. There was no real need for parks, golf courses, organized recreation, and planned activities by associations and organizations.
Most of us lived in the country and knew what those folks who drove out to see us on Sunday were called. We whispered about city-slickers with fancy suits and tourin' cars. They needed watching a little but they didn't have the real smarts a county kid comes by kinda natural.
We showed 'em the birds and bees and the stock and the chickens. What was the use of talking about things you lived with every day of your life. If they were half-way with us, we steered them around poison ivy, beggars lice, sumac and chuckle burrs.
It was fun to try the young fellow from town our on corn silk, Indian cigars, grape vine and Brown's Mule. Smokin' and chewin' was all the same, they got white, wobbly and then sick to the stomach. That was good clean fun and recreation the old way. We didn't mean no harm by it and they had something to talk about when they got back to the city.
I guess they talked about Dad rollin' his own and the checked dress Mom had made from some feed sack goods. We got in our licks about the patent leather shoes, the striped pants and the starched collars.
But all of us enjoyed the coming and the going. Those city words that identified a nationality and degraded many first generation Americans were lost on our untrained ears. It was better that way. We walked the country roads and they walked the city streets.
Once in a while the youngsters were afraid of the dark and needed some reassurance. But there was always someone to make you feel safe and not much happened to make newspaper headlines. I guess it happened some but when you have a piece of hay in the corner of your mouth and whistle up your dog a fellow feels mighty comfortable and secure.
So I watched the two big men. You don't call a man a Water Witch, even in the country and get by with it. There had to be the inevitable collision.
The one stood sort of sizing up the antagonist and then fondled the forked peach stick. It looked sort of like a sling shot without the leather cup and rubber innertube strips. I thought of David and Goliath. Perhaps history would repeat. Then the startling first words, "It's a gift, sort of like extrasensory perception."
The forked stick is held in both hands with the bottom of the Y pointed upward. It is known as a Divining Rod and when the gifted carrier walks over a good stream of water the stick turns over and points to the water. Next the "witch" takes a limber twig and holds it over the spot selected by the peach stick.
Like a pump handle the twig dips down and then comes back to the starting position. Each circuit indicates 10 feet and if it bows 8 times you must go 80 feet to strike water. At the end of the measurement the twig will shake sideways before staring over again.
Fantastic? Perhaps it is. But, this same man told me where to drill and that I would need to go down 128 feet to strike water. I believed and hit at 126 feet. We have good water in a country well and if you understand the meaning of the title even a Water Witch can be a mighty regular guy.
If some of my city colleagues feel like being a LFRA Witch, we'll let them use a Diving Rod to find discounts, travel opportunity, recreation and more members. Success is fun!
David L. Brigham
Executive Witch
September 26, 2009
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
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
September 22, 2009
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
"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
September 15, 2009
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
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
September 8, 2009
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
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
September 3, 2009
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
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
August 28, 2009
January/February 1971
There is always a gate. Sometimes it is swinging in, and at other times, swinging out. For every gate there is an experience. There are people to relate to the gate whether it be of wood, metal, or stone.
Some gates are ornate, and others brightly painted. Some are rusty, creaking, and only half on an abandoned post. Always the gate is engaged in a struggle against the elements created by both nature and man.
At the gate there are always hopes, memories, ambitions, and experiences. Of all the creations, these vital ingredients have been reserved for man alone. Both the generosity and the responsibility of these gifts are overwhelming. Thankfully, there is a balance which causes the gate to swing in one direction with pressure, and in another with pull.
As we reach into the tomorrow of yet another year, we must close our gate on some great events which are now history. All of us have our own reflection as we see an old year out and anticipate the new. I trust that you will have your own parade of thoughts as I relate my own gate experiences.
In the past year a gate was opened for a member of our family. This was a farewell gate for one who had seen nearly 82 years as a treasured component of our inner circle. She was the one who had laughed with such understanding when a small boy on a very black night was encouraged to set a new record for the 100 yard dash. The route was from the barn to the back porch and was initiated by the groan of a rusty hinge supporting a sagging gate.
She it was who often summed up the ambition of this youth with the impossible goal, "He's all too often reaching for the moon." She lived long enough to hear her little granddaughter say, "I used to think Daddy was so tall he could walk up on a stepladder and touch the sky." In the time of that grandmother, other young Americans opened the impossible gate--reached the moon and walked upon it. It couldn't be done and yet is was...in 1970.
Hardly had that departing latch dropped before another was being lifted to accommodate someone coming in our gate. For those who are interested, there is a grandson. We have our miracle and he picked my birthday to enter the gate.
Undoubtedly, gates are important, and for some 17 years I sat on a great campus where I could watch the arrival of young men and women as they walked between the great brick posts and under the identifying ironwork. For many this was a giant step which would be appreciated and assimilated.
The bricks and mortar were there, the knowledge of generations waited in the library, and many fertile minds were ready to share the largest word in research and discovery. Like the structure of bricks and the mortar, knowledge is built on fact and finding, a step at a time.
Each generation adds a segment to the great mosaic of life. All too often there are those who exit through the gate after a short struggle, for the campus hills offer a challenge. Others see the green grass which borders the pathway lading to the great outside and depart. For some, it will remain green, but for most, it will lose its vigor as the distance from the gate increases.
Fortunately, there are many who have the means, the stamina, and the desire to complete the experience and enjoy not only the climax parade before family and friends, but also the fruits of effort.
It is difficult for us to look at the interesting experience we call life without realizing that each generation and each year goes beyond that which preceded it. Somehow the combination of the certainty of yesterday gives the hope that is required for tomorrow.
Indeed the story is an old one, but deeply significant...So many have not heard it yet...The young man left home and walked through the gate to seek his fortune in his own way. For a time those who had contributed most to his preparation were forgotten and ignored.
The years passed and an aging mother and father received a letter. Briefly it stated, "I will be on the train next Wednesday. If I am welcome at home, after the years of heartache and neglect I have caused, please hang a white cloth on the cherry tree at the edge of town. If there is no cloth, I will know I am not welcome."
When the train reached the town limits, a passenger viewed an old tree completely covered with bed sheets.
It has been good to re-live old days, but it means even more to be a part of the preparation for an unexplored tomorrow. I think I'll spend a few moments with the thoughts of the English school teacher in India.
She faced an uncertain road, and her answer may well have a message for the League, for the leadership, for 150,000 members representing 58 federal agencies and for you and for me...
"And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year: 'Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.' And he replied, 'Go out into the darkness and put thy hand in the hand of God. That shall be to you better than a light and safer than a known way.'"
David L. Brigham
Executive Director
Some gates are ornate, and others brightly painted. Some are rusty, creaking, and only half on an abandoned post. Always the gate is engaged in a struggle against the elements created by both nature and man.
At the gate there are always hopes, memories, ambitions, and experiences. Of all the creations, these vital ingredients have been reserved for man alone. Both the generosity and the responsibility of these gifts are overwhelming. Thankfully, there is a balance which causes the gate to swing in one direction with pressure, and in another with pull.
As we reach into the tomorrow of yet another year, we must close our gate on some great events which are now history. All of us have our own reflection as we see an old year out and anticipate the new. I trust that you will have your own parade of thoughts as I relate my own gate experiences.
In the past year a gate was opened for a member of our family. This was a farewell gate for one who had seen nearly 82 years as a treasured component of our inner circle. She was the one who had laughed with such understanding when a small boy on a very black night was encouraged to set a new record for the 100 yard dash. The route was from the barn to the back porch and was initiated by the groan of a rusty hinge supporting a sagging gate.
She it was who often summed up the ambition of this youth with the impossible goal, "He's all too often reaching for the moon." She lived long enough to hear her little granddaughter say, "I used to think Daddy was so tall he could walk up on a stepladder and touch the sky." In the time of that grandmother, other young Americans opened the impossible gate--reached the moon and walked upon it. It couldn't be done and yet is was...in 1970.
Hardly had that departing latch dropped before another was being lifted to accommodate someone coming in our gate. For those who are interested, there is a grandson. We have our miracle and he picked my birthday to enter the gate.
Undoubtedly, gates are important, and for some 17 years I sat on a great campus where I could watch the arrival of young men and women as they walked between the great brick posts and under the identifying ironwork. For many this was a giant step which would be appreciated and assimilated.
The bricks and mortar were there, the knowledge of generations waited in the library, and many fertile minds were ready to share the largest word in research and discovery. Like the structure of bricks and the mortar, knowledge is built on fact and finding, a step at a time.
Each generation adds a segment to the great mosaic of life. All too often there are those who exit through the gate after a short struggle, for the campus hills offer a challenge. Others see the green grass which borders the pathway lading to the great outside and depart. For some, it will remain green, but for most, it will lose its vigor as the distance from the gate increases.
Fortunately, there are many who have the means, the stamina, and the desire to complete the experience and enjoy not only the climax parade before family and friends, but also the fruits of effort.
It is difficult for us to look at the interesting experience we call life without realizing that each generation and each year goes beyond that which preceded it. Somehow the combination of the certainty of yesterday gives the hope that is required for tomorrow.
Indeed the story is an old one, but deeply significant...So many have not heard it yet...The young man left home and walked through the gate to seek his fortune in his own way. For a time those who had contributed most to his preparation were forgotten and ignored.
The years passed and an aging mother and father received a letter. Briefly it stated, "I will be on the train next Wednesday. If I am welcome at home, after the years of heartache and neglect I have caused, please hang a white cloth on the cherry tree at the edge of town. If there is no cloth, I will know I am not welcome."
When the train reached the town limits, a passenger viewed an old tree completely covered with bed sheets.
It has been good to re-live old days, but it means even more to be a part of the preparation for an unexplored tomorrow. I think I'll spend a few moments with the thoughts of the English school teacher in India.
She faced an uncertain road, and her answer may well have a message for the League, for the leadership, for 150,000 members representing 58 federal agencies and for you and for me...
"And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year: 'Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.' And he replied, 'Go out into the darkness and put thy hand in the hand of God. That shall be to you better than a light and safer than a known way.'"
David L. Brigham
Executive Director
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