Translating for Richard Nixon

These photos were taken when Dad was serving in the Peace Corps in Santiago, Chile, in 1966 and 1967. My father, David Brigham, is the tall, thin young man pictured at the far left. This was during Richard Nixon's "wilderness years," the time between being Vice President and being elected President. Nixon was on a goodwill tour in Latin America, and during this stop in Santiago, Chile, my father acted as translator. The photos are remarkable considering Nixon's dismal view of the Peace Corps--he thought it would become a haven for draft-dodgers and tried to quietly dissolve the organization. My father served both in the Peace Corps and the US Army, so that's how much Tricky Dick knew.

Polaroid album

My mother gave me a little red Polaroid album a while back, and I have finally gotten around to scanning the pictures. The photos begin with Thanksgiving and Christmas at Foxley, then a trip to the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia, and finally Easter photos in the front yard at Foxley. Polaroids were certainly fun and convenient--but they don't have a date printed on the back of them like processed film. I know that the Polaroid Swinger camera was produced between 1965 and 1970. The photos are certainly from that era. Julie and Rich were married in 1967, and they appear together here, possibly in their first home in one. Ganny died in July 1970, and Doc Bussler died in 1972. Do you see Anna Bussler in any of the pictures?--she died in October 1967. I'm going to do my best to identify everyone below the photos, but please help me if you know who is in the pictures and when they were taken. Thanks!



Thanksgiving at Gladys and Dave's home Foxley. Around the table clockwise: Young Dave's eyeglasses and nose (my father), Rich, Julie, an unknown man whose hands are in the picture, Dottie, Vernon, at the head of the table is Gladys (my grandmother), unknown young lady, Ganny (my great-grandmother), the top of Pat's head, unknown young lady with dark hair, Liz in white sweater holding food (my mother), and unknown young lady with blonde hair. One of the unidentified young ladies is probably Dottie's daughter Anita.



Thanksgiving at Foxley, around the table clockwise: Ganny (my great-grandmother), Pat , unknown young lady with dark hair, Liz (my mother), unknown young lady with blonde hair, at the head of the table again is Gladys (my grandmother), Dave (my father), Rich, Julie, unknown man, Dottie, and Vernon Swiger.



My grandmother's sister Dorothy Beall Swiger. This is the dining room at Foxley on Thanksgiving.



Christmas at Foxley: Dave unwrapping an aquarium set (my father), Gladys cleaning her glasses (my grandmother), and Ganny (my great-grandmother).



Julie next to the Christmas tree. This does not look like Foxley--maybe it was taken at her new home with Rich.





It looks like my grandparents went to see the Liberty Bell with Julie and Rich. The first photo shows the backs of heads: stranger, Rich, and Julie. The second shows Gladys in a fur coat, the Liberty Bell, Rich, and Julie. This is perhaps the fur coat my grandfather gave her as a Christmas gift one year, wrapped in a garbage bag.





Always collies at Foxley. This little one appears prominently in the Easter photos, too.



Dave (my grandfather) snoozing in a wingback in his stocking feet.



The bow tie is a dead giveaway: this is Doc Bussler.





Easter at Foxley, clockwise starting at the top: Rich, Julie, Young Dave, Gladys, and Pat.



Easter at Foxley, clockwise starting at the top: Rich, Julie, Pat, Gladys, and Big Dave.

Behold Your Son

This was a sermon for the Easter season written and delivered by David A. Brigham (my father) sometime between 2000-2002.

BEHOLD YOUR SON
David A. Brigham

Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother's sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdelene. When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, 'Dear woman, here is your son,' and to the disciple, 'Here is your mother.' From that time on, this disciple took her into his home.

"Mom, can I go out and play now?"

"No, Jesus, you promised me you'd do your school work before you went outside."

"Mom, Mom, can I have a piece of fruit?"

"No, Jesus, that fruit is for our dinner and besides, you promised you'd sweep your Father's workshop before dinner."

It's not easy to imagine those types of real life scenes playing out in the life of Jesus and his mother. Did you ever stop to think about Jesus the Christ having those kinds of talks with "Mom"? Isn't it hard to picture the real Jesus as a child, as a teenager? Isn't it hard to see Him in real life episodes,in family settings, in conflict and uncertainty? Isn't it hard to think about the daily dialogue he had with his mother and father, his siblings, his friends?

After all, this is the Savior, the Messiah, the Son of God!

But the essence of our faith is that God gave his Son to this life for us--subjecting Him to the real world, and all its relationships, all its reality, all its ups and downs, all its pain.

The story of Jesus begins with his mother. Through Mary, the mother, we come to understand Jesus--the loving child, the dedicated son. The gospel story finds the real life Mary, not a story book figure, there for her Son, from childbirth in a stable, to death on a cross, and the incredible joy of resurrection. Loving always, faithful always--Mary was there, always.

Not every mother and son relationship is perfect. Some are failures. Occasionally we hear of a mother who abandons or mistreats a child, or cares little for her children. But this is rare. A mother's love is, generally, an extraordinary thing--and there is undoubtedly as special bond between mother and son.

I have always been very close to my own Mother. But I never understood the powerful bond of Mother and Son so clearly until I hear my own Dad's last words to me as he prepared for death's passage. Those last words: "Take care of Mom."

I was prepared to do that anyway. After all my Mother and I were close; I was the oldest living child; and I was her neighbor. But, at that moment, my obligation to her become so real, so personal, so spiritual. The Father passed the care of the Mother to the Son. "Take care of Mom."

Mary, the loving Mother, supported her Son throughout his life, and suffered unmercifully at his death. We can hardly imaging the physical pain of the crucifixion. Equally, there is no way to know the pain of heart which Mary felt as she stood at the foot of the cross and saw her Son.

Jesus, the loving Son, felt the special bond between Mother and Son, never waivered in his respect and compassion for Mary, and reached out to her at his death, seeking to make sure that she was cared for emotionally and materially. He gave her care over to others and acknowledged her special place in the history of the Christian faith.

This was Mary, the mother of God's Son. What an exalted title! This was Mary, the loving mother of Jesus. What an exalted role! "Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the child you will bear... Blessed is she who has believed what the Lord has said to her will be accomplished!"

There is no doubt that Mary was a tower of strength for all around her. There is no doubt that she knew exactly the role that Jesus would have to fulfill. There is no doubt that she loved him as deeply as any mother could ever love a son, and more.

Washington Irving captured Mary and all who would be like her when he wrote, "There is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that transcends all other affection of the heart! It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment, she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity--and if misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from misfortune...and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him."

Equally, while Jesus would preach the importance of putting God's work above even our family, no son ever loved a mother more than he loved Mary. She was a constant in his life. She was there for him. He was there for her.

The words at the cross are so few. We are left trying to imagine what it was all really like, to sense the overwhelming tragedy, to wonder how it could possibly be. In Jesus' few words, though, he speaks volumes.

As Mary stands at the foot of the cross looking up at her son, I think she is saying this: "Jesus, my Son, I love you dearly. I cannot bear to see you suffer like this. If I could, I would take your place right now. I have loved you since the moment God place you in my womb. I have understood my special role and responsibility. I know you are the Messiah. I can't understand why all this is happening. My heart is breaking. But I will never stop loving you."

Jesus hangs on the nails that pierce his hands. He can hardly speak, but he looks down and sees his mother. I believe he is saying to all of us: "My beloved friends, no matter what happens, we must love each other and take care of each other. I'm sorry you have to see me in such pain, an sorry this all has to happen this way. But it does! I ask you to look after my mother. I ask all of you to help your mothers and fathers and friends, to have special care for the elderly and the infirm, to reach out and lend a hand, to feed others spiritually and physically. I love you."

Jesus left us a sermon, a hundred sermons, a thousand sermons, in just a few words.

On Calvary, Jesus gave his mother over to the care of his friends, and gave all people in need over to the care of others. Her strength and her example help us to come to God, just as God came to us through her.

Notwithstanding the torture and pain, there is time and ability to take care of things that matter, to tie up the loose ends, to look after others, to pour out a heart, to show unending love...

"Take care of Mom."

Rocky Gap Veterans Cemetery

My father, David Arthur Brigham, is buried in Flintstone, Maryland, in the Rocky Gap Veterans Cemetery just down the road from Rocky Gap State Park. He died seven years ago today at Glyndon in Ashton, Maryland, at the age of fifty-nine after a prolonged battle with metastatic prostate cancer.

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