Gold to Refine

By Richard V. Shriver

Gold To Refine is a collection of short stories. It is stories about my experiences as a student, youth director, minister/pastor/preacher, and teacher in Tennessee, Wisconsin, and England. It covers a period of about fifty years. It is stories about places I have lived and places I have visited - wonderful places. But much more, it is stories about people people I have known and admired over the years people who have been important in my life and in the lives of those around them wonderful people (there are a few tales about not-so-nice people, too). If anyone is in contact with all kinds of people and situations, it is clergy. These are stories about the amazing experiences of a particular minister, which happens to be myself. The stories are true.
Some of the stories are humorous - even slapstick others are quite serious. As I say in the preface, I believe we all need stories funny stories, touching stories, loving stories, happy stories, stories with a moral, stories with hope. I offer this collection from the events of my life in the hope that in them are elements of humor, hope, and lovefor entertainmentbut also for encouragement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 11, 2005
• ISBN: 9781477162408

Richard V. Shriver

Richard Shriver was born in Nashville, Tennessee, the second of three sons of Thomas A. and Attie Gene Shriver. His father was a highly honored judge of the Tennessee Court of Appeals. His education was in the public schools through the twelfth grade. His bachelor’s degree is in Philosophy from Vanderbilt University, and his Master of Divinity degree also is from Vanderbilt. He is an ordained minister in the United Methodist Church, having served churches in Tennessee, Wisconsin, and England for thirty-two years. Dr. Shriver continued his education in History, Music, and Christian Education in the graduate schools of Vanderbilt University, Peabody College, Scarritt College, Wisconsin State University, and Middle Tennessee State University, and earned his doctorate in Education and Theology at the Vanderbilt University Divinity School. He has been active in radio and television as a regular guest on Nashville’s Channel 5, Lebanon, Tennessee’s Channel 66, and WLAC Radio. He shares the hosting of Nashville’s CATV’s “We Believe,” and is a regular guest on WNQM Radio’s “We Believe,” a Roman Catholic sponsored show. Dr. Shriver’s first book, The Gabriel Letters, was published in 1990. He presently is Professor of Philosophy and Religion at Cumberland University in Lebanon, Tennessee and is Adjunct Professor of Religious Studies at Volunteer State College in Gallatin, Tennessee where he lives with his wife, Joy. They have two grown children…son, Colin and daughter, Kendal.

Book preview

I

WARM FARMHOUSE AND GOOD FOOD

Lying face down, on top of a coffin at the bottom of an eight-foot-deep grave, on a cold, gray, snowy, ten degrees below zero (F) February afternoon in Wisconsin—it was not exactly where I had expected to be! And I certainly did not intend to stay there!

I might add that I was lying on top of the coffin, not in it. The man inside, Jon Jonson, had spent his life trying to eke out a living for himself and his family on a sand hill labeled by some as a farm. He had died poor as poor he had lived and was being given a pauper’s burial in a little country church cemetery. The cemetery was a part of the sand hill.

I was not his minister. The small sand hill community could not afford a minister for their little church. I did not know the man. I was the minister of one of the town churches. The ministers of the other town churches would bury and marry and baptize only their own, so Sid Jensen, the mortician/ambulance-driver/ general-community-benefactor, regularly called me when the left-out needed burying.

My parish included three churches in three small towns. The members of these churches lived across the countryside for a twenty-mile radius around the middle town, Alma Center. With church members as well as the non-members, I averaged a funeral per week, and it was not unusual that I did not know the person whose last rites I was performing.

I had no problem with such funerals. The deceased are in God’s hands, and I am convinced that from His hands they (and we) receive nothing but good. My task was with the living who had lost a parent, brother, sister, child, friend. And the Gospel message to them is so great that my job was always an exciting one.

On the day before this cold February afternoon, Sid had called. I’ve got a poor fellow who can’t afford a funeral, he said. I understood. I didn’t expect or accept pay for funerals, anyhow. if families insisted on paying, as many did, I turned it over to the church as a gift from the deceased. I was on salary. Funerals were and should be a part of the duties of the minister.

I’m taking care of the expenses for this one, Sid said. He had arranged for the grave to be dug and a wooden vault to be installed in the grave. He also had provided an inexpensive coffin (they are available).

On that cold afternoon, there I was with the mourners, conducting the brief ceremony for Jon Jonson’s burial. It was cold! I wore no hat or gloves. It seemed to me undignified for the minister to wear hat and gloves at a funeral. It was to be a very short graveside service. Because of the cold, only a few people were there: the immediate family, Sid, myself, and a couple of men to fill the grave.

Most folks had gathered at a neighboring farmhouse. There, we knew, it was warm. We also knew that all the neighbors would have brought lunch. That’s what they called it, lunch.

It really would be a feast. Those wonderful Wisconsin people brought great dishes of their best cooking on the occasion of a funeral. There were marvelous casseroles with Wisconsin cheeses over vegetables and beef and pork roasts. There were baked potatoes with plenty of real butter! And, of course, there were pastries—pies, cakes, cobblers, and breads of all kinds.

Feasting at a time of grief—at first I, a native of Tennessee, wondered if it were a proper way to show grief and sympathy. Before moving to Wisconsin, I had never known such a custom. In Tennessee, we just buried them and went home! No feasts for us! I quickly became converted.

I must admit that thoughts were going through my mind about the warm farmhouse down the road and the wonderful food spread out and waiting for us when the ceremony was concluded! I read some scripture, made a few pertinent comments, said a prayer, and gave the benediction. The family left for the warm farmhouse. Sid, myself, and the two men were left to lower the coffin into the grave and cover it. It was getting colder and colder, but we knew that there was a reward waiting for us down the road.

Little did we know that during the night the sandy walls of the grave in that sand hill cemetery had caved in, pressing against the sides of the thin wooden vault, bowing the sides inward. And so, as we lowered the coffin on spring-loaded straps, the coffin stopped about halfway down. It was stuck.

We were in the cold! Bitter cold! And the coffin was stuck! Warmth and food a few hundred yards away, but we could not have them. My ears were frozen and I couldn’t make a fist, but we could not leave the cemetery.

We tried shovels as wedges. No luck. One man had an iron bar in his truck. He had gloves. My bare hands would have stuck to it—frozen. He pried and pried. Nothing worked. We were going to have to pull the coffin out and re-dig the grave. Hours of work—no warm farmhouse—no feast for us. It probably would all be eaten and put away before we got there!

I looked around at the faces of cold, dejected men. Then it hit me. If someone just jumped over on the coffin—jumped up and down a little, maybe—it probably would go down. I looked again at the faces—Sid, his men. They knew. And I knew they knew. And I knew that not one of them would do it! Reverence or superstition, whichever, they would not do it!

So I did. I jumped over on it. It did not work. It stayed stuck. So I jumped up and down (at least it warmed me up some). It must have looked pretty funny—the preacher jumping up and down on a coffin in a grave in a cemetery. But no one was laughing. Then it moved! Slowly, slowly, down I went into the grave … to the bottom. The men pulled me out. Let’s go for the farmhouse—the lunch. But no. The lowering straps were stuck. We couldn’t go off and leave lowering straps sticking out of a grave! I hadn’t helped. I had just made matters worse.

By now we were really frozen. The thoughts of warm farmhouse and good food were again fading out of our reach. It didn’t take me long. I knew no one else would. I jumped back in. Lying face down on the coffin, I was able to work the straps loose! As I lay there, I thought … what am I doing?! And I had been concerned about dignity at a funeral!

I doubt that many people have tried lying face down on a coffin at the bottom of a grave, and I must say that I really can’t recommend it. The view is not too good. I certainly had not been that close to Jon Jonson when he was alive.

But success! They pulled me out again and soon our work was done.

Strangely, no one ever mentioned what I did.

The farmhouse was warm and the food and fellowship were wonderful. And there were a few very grateful men.

II

JACK AND THE SIX DANGEROUS MEN

It was past midnight. I was sound asleep, but Jack was shaking me. Richard, wake up, wake up. Gradually, I returned to consciousness.

Jack Montgomery, a legendary figure who really did exist, had come to Wisconsin to help me open a youth center. We had been friends as students at Vanderbilt University, singing together in the tenor section of all the Vanderbilt choirs. I left Nashville for Wisconsin, and he had gone to Colorado to work in a silver mine. There must not have been much silver, because here he was in Alma Center, Wisconsin. He had already met a pretty 18-year-old named Judy, and was dating her regularly.

I knew that Jack, Judy, and Jill, Judy’s 15-year-old cousin from Milwaukee, were going to the beach on that afternoon, but I had meetings and could not go. Jack and I each had rented bedrooms upstairs at Gene Thayer’s house, and that night I had gone to bed before Jack got home.

The beach was at a state park lake at Hatfield, about twelve miles east of Alma Center. It was mid-summer; beautiful weather, sunset was late, and it did not get dark until after 10:00 P.M. I’ve got to tell you what has happened, Jack was saying.

What? I asked.

I just nearly got killed! he said.

What on earth are you talking about? I asked.

Jack began his story: Judy and Jill had packed a picnic supper, and, late in the afternoon, the three of them had headed for the Hatfield beach in Jack’s old klunker, a 1948 Plymouth. Jack had the 1940 classic Packard, which we both had owned at Vanderbilt, but he had bought the old Plymouth for $50.00 and was using it for his transportation.

They swam, enjoyed their picnic, swam some more, and then sat on the beach, singing with Jack picking on his old Harmony guitar. Before they knew it, it began getting dark, and they realized that everyone else had left the beach. The beach and the rest of the park were deserted. Jack, Judy, and Jill were alone.

Realizing how late it was, they packed everything and, still dressed in their swimsuits, went back to the car. It was almost dark as Jack, ever the gentleman, held the passenger door for both girls to climb into the front seat, Judy in the middle. As he tossed the basket into the back seat, a large shiny new Mercury 4-door sedan drove by the back of their car and suddenly turned into the parking space next to their car on the driver’s side, across the car from Jack. Out of the Mercury piled six large men. Apparently, they were temporary workers who came each year, finding jobs in the nearby cranberry bogs.

No one else was anywhere in sight. Jack froze, standing next to the open passenger door of the old Plymouth. The only light was the dim glow from the inside dome-light of Jack’s car. The driver of the car, followed by the other five men, came straight toward them, and leaning into the open car window opposite Jack, flipped open a switchblade knife and flashing it in Judy’s face, said, The girls are going with us. There was a strong smell of alcohol.

I have thought many times, What would I do? and have never come up with anything that I thought would work. Jack had no weapon. The girls were speechless … and the three together certainly were no match for the six men. What could he do?

Jack was about six feet tall and quite athletic. But he only weighed about 150 pounds. Each of the drunk men outweighed him by at least 30 pounds. He was fast. I am sure that it occurred to him that he could run—or grab the girls and run. But those were not very good ideas, and besides, the knife was very close to Judy’s face.

He could attack … and get himself killed! Or he might run around the car and create a diversion, shouting, Run, girls, run! His honor would be saved and remembered at his funeral … and the girls probably would not have gotten away. In their state of mind at the time, running may not have been possible. He could try talking to the men—about an underage girl, about penalties for kidnapping or rape. Jack was a fast thinker and good talker. I remember a time back in Nashville:

Jack was active with the Circle Theater. I was in the audience one night when Jack was to entertain us during a between-act stage change. Being in the previous act, he planned to run off stage, grab his guitar (the old Harmony), run back, sit down on the edge of the stage, give the guitar a quick strum for his pitch, and start singing.

What Jack did not know was that some children, backstage, had been playing with his guitar and had unwound the strings. When he gave it his quick strum, the sound was a monotone soft crashing sound. Caught completely by surprise, Jack made a face: his eyes went crossed, his tongue stuck out, and his ears wiggled! He then began making jokes while re-tuning the guitar and had everyone rolling with laughter. Jack was a fast thinker and a good talker. But these men were drunk. Drunkenness is a form of insanity, and reason had flown away.

With his mind reeling in panic, Jack reached into the glove compartment of the car. He did not know what was in there … certainly no weapon. He wasn’t even sure why he was reaching … just hoping for an idea.

His hand came upon a little bottle. He recognized it, immediately. Mosquitoes are terrible in the Wisconsin summer, and the bottle was a six-ounce bottle of 6-12 Insect Repellant. Desperate, Jack grabbed the bottle and quickly walked around the back of his car and up behind the man leaning in the car window. He jabbed the bottle into the man’s ribs and said, I’d just as soon kill you as look at you. Get out of here!

The man, in the dark, obviously thinking the bottle to be a gun, backed away. Jack stayed with him, bottle in ribs. He backed the man all the way to his car and forced him into the driver’s seat. Terrified, the other five followed and also got in the car.

Jack walked back toward the Plymouth and the girls, but the men were not leaving. So Jack turned and walked back toward the car with the drunk men in it, and, pointing his mosquito-repellant-bottle-weapon at them, in his most threatening tenor voice, shouted, I mean it! I’d just as soon kill the whole bunch of you as look at you!

With this attack, the great Mercury roared into action and peeled off down the road. Not satisfied, Jack jumped in the old Plymouth and gave chase!

But the old Plymouth was no match for the Mercury … or for the wrath of Jack. The Mercury disappeared down the road.

Jack pulled off the road and stopped. He was shaking so violently that he could not hold the steering wheel or keep his foot on the gas. Hysterically, the two girls began screaming and shaking and crying and screaming some more. Jack said that it took two hours for them to get calmed down enough for him to take them home. Now, he had made his way to our place, exhausted, to tell me his story.

I got dressed and we drove the twelve miles to the county seat sheriff’s department in Black River Falls, where at 1:30 A.M., we reported the event. With a description of the men and the car, they were arrested the next day, and with a trial, they spent several weeks in jail.

III

TO SKI OR NOT TO SKI

I really wanted to learn to ski … on snow. I water skied.

The Old Hickory Lake dam was built while I was in college, and we skied on the lake regularly—late into the autumn, even November—until the water got too cold. We were back skiing again early in the spring when the water began to warm again.

Jack Montgomery tried water skiing in winter. He insisted that he could start while standing on the dock and ski without getting wet. He was determined to try, saying that he then would ski back to the dock, let go of the rope in time to sit down on the dock as he slowed to a stop.

His idea was to stand on the dock with his skis on, holding the tow rope, which was attached to the back of the boat. He had about ten yards of the rope coiled at his feet so that the boat could pick up speed, and then he would be jerked off the dock and not sink as he took-off.

I told him that it probably would pull his arms out of their sockets, but he was sure he could do it.

What followed was a little like a movie cartoon. Jack peeled off his heavy clothes, leaving him freezing in a cold wind, dressed only in his swimsuit. He stood on the dock, shivering and ready to go. I was in the boat, revving up the engine. He gave the signal to go, and I hit the throttle, full blast. The boat roared into action—all twenty-five horses of our Johnson Sea Horse engine! Jack stood crouched and ready … the rope began to uncoil in front of him … and then a terrible jerk! When the rope came taut, I thought it pulled off the back end of the boat! It came with a terrible twang and thump and then I was flying 30 mph in the boat across the lake with Jack skiing behind me … I thought. I looked back to see how he was doing.

There was no rope. There was no Jack … only myself and the boat. I turned back and saw Jack climbing out of the freezing water, back onto the dock. I turned the boat around and was there in an instant. The skis were still in place.

What happened? I shouted.

The rope broke! he screamed. He didn’t look very well.

Why were you in the water? I asked.

Because you jerked me in! he replied in disgust.

It was your idea, I answered.

Then he turned around. His whole back was raw. The sudden jerk had pulled him right out of his skis, but the rope broke, dumping him immediately into the lake, feet first, scraping his back its whole length along the edge of the dock as he slid into the icy water.

Want’a try again? I joked.

I’m freezing, he