Positively Dangerous: Memoirs, Revelations, Interpretations of One Transcended

By Gwen Brinkley

“POSITIVELY DANGEROUS” describes insight into God with which the author was left as a result of three transcendental experiences. Her conclusions indicate that theologians innocently profess much false information. Interpretation of the transcendental events and aftermaths of fourteenth century “contemplatives” or “mystics” authenticates their experiences relative to the author’s.

The memoirs introduce the book, that the reader may become versed in the source of his information. Included are unique encounters involving celebrities, travel, professional brainwashing techniques, religious verve, and light-hearted humor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 2, 2006
• ISBN: 9781984547101

Gwen Brinkley

Gwen Brinkley was born in New Hampshire. Exposure to a humble Methodist minister incited her to emulate his positive spirit throughout her life. After winning the Arthur Godfrey top talent award, she worked in Boston and New York. Marriage to an engineering editor-turned-oil-producer (undercover agent?) provided extensive travel, including a mission to India, plus European, Mideastern, and Far Eastern sojourns. Widowed with three children, marriage to an abusive experimental psychologist left her traumatized and divorced. She experienced transcendence in Bethlehem in 1981, in Florida in 1989, and in New Hampshire in 1998. She attended Boston University and Millsaps College.

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Copyright © 2005 by Gwen Brinkley.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 08/13/2018

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1: CAPITAL ADJUSTMENTS

CHAPTER 2: NEW YORK, NEW YORK

CHAPTER 3: THE DAYS OF WINE AND ROBERT

Time Out

The Good Shepherd Revisited

Merrilly

My India Summer

Home Again, Home Again

Sailing, Sailing

Cha-Cha-Cha

The Low Road

Trust and Obey

South of the Border

Their Holy Land, My Holy Heaven

Shalom, Jerusalem

Another Life in Death Issue

Nile-ism

A Tribute to Athena

A Tribute to God

Reflections on Leonardo da Vinci Airport

When in Rome

Day Trip

Seems Like Old Times

Bird of Paradise

CHAPTER 4: THE PARTY’S OVER

CHAPTER 5: NO COMMENT

CHAPTER 6: REALITY

CHAPTER 7: SHACKLED BY ONE HEAVY BURDEN

(Custom Case Study)

CHAPTER 8: ESCHEW ISSUE

CHAPTER 9: SHE’S SAFE, HE’S OUT

CHAPTER 10: IN MY SOLITUDE

CHAPTER 11: GREAT IS HIS FAITHFULNESS

Tell Me Why

Moving Right Along

Short Stop

CHAPTER 12: MOVED TO WHERE?

Tolling of La Bell

Mall Pall

Bell Knell

Mall Call

Relatively Speaking

Mall Fall

Head ’um Up, Move ’um Out

Relatively, Too

CHAPTER 13: UP AND AWAY

CHAPTER 14: A STORY TO TELL TO THE NATIONS

A Story of Stories

When God Calls

Higher Learning

CHAPTER 15: INTERPRETATION OF THE

REVELATIONS OF THE TRANSCENDED

The Cloud of Unknowing

Ladder of Perfection

Fire of Love

Revelations of Divine Love, by Julian of Norwich

Preconsiderations

CHAPTER 16: JULIAN’S SHOWINGS (DATED 1413)

THE GRACE WARRACK TRANSLATION (1901),

FIFTH EDITION 1914, (THE AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION, INTERPRETATIONS, AND COMMENTS)

First Showing: The Crown of Thorns

Second Showing: Seek Him Unceasingly

Third Showing: Sin Unseen

Fourth Showing: Christ’s Blood Vanished

Fifth Showing: The Fiend is Overcome

Sixth Showing: The Lord and the Servants

Seventh Showing: Joy and Sorrow

Eighth Showing: The Death of Christ

Ninth Showing: A Joy to Suffer

Tenth Showing: Christ’s Heart Cloven in Two

Eleventh Showing: The Virgin Mary

Twelfth Showing: It is I

Thirteenth Showing:

(Chapter 27: Sin is fitting; all shall be well)

(Chapter 28: The compassion of Christ)

(Chapter 29: Atonement more pleasing than

sin harmful)

(Chapter 30: Trust in God)

(Chapter 31: The spiritual thirst of Christ)

(Chapter 32: I shall make all things well)

(Chapter 33: I could learn nothing about sin)

(Chapter 34: Two mysteries)

(Chapter 35: God endures all)

(Chapter 36: Sin doesn’t curtail His goodness)

(Chapter 37: God keeps sinners safe)

(Chapter 38: Sin is turned into glory)

(Chapter 39: Sin and contrition)

(Chapter 40: God loves us while we sin)

Fourteenth Showing

(Chapter 41: The importance of prayer)

(Chapter 42: Faith in His wisdom)

(Chapter 43: Thy will be done)

Fifteenth Showing:

(Chapter 64: Always near delivery)

(Chapter 65: Fear of the Lord and humility)

Sixteenth Showing

(Chapter 66: Strangulation by the Fiend)

(Chapter 67: Jesus shall remain)

(Chapter 68: All shall be well)

EPILOGUE

THIRD TRANSCENDENCE

REFERENCES

Acknowledgements

G od, alone, is capable of expressing the appreciation I feel for every person instrumental to this book. How does one thank a lifetime of people, some of whom have left this life? The reader encounters some of the individuals in the memoirs, and will surely realize the significance of each.

Dr. Avery C. Manchester, friend nonpareil, set this work in motion when he provided the two books, Visions of God, by Karen Armstrong, (Bantam Books); and Revelations of Divine Love, by Julian of Norwich, translated by Dr. Elizabeth Spearing, (Penguin (UK)). His kind gesture provided the opportunity for me to relate to others who’d experienced transcendence. His concern for, and understanding of, my plight, touched my heart more than he could possibly know. I shall ever be grateful for his ceaseless caring, as it launched me into the position of realizing the responsibility of producing, in writing, a response to the messages I felt required address in the respective books.

As a novice, but sparked by the energy of encouragement, I set about writing, based on the two books, thinking in terms of probable public domain status. (Silly me!) I had much to learn. Heartfelt appreciation is extended to each author and representative of a permissions department noted in the reference section of this book, for tidbits of information that helped guide me through the intricacies of publishing. Many thanks, as well, to the Xlibris staff for every thoughtful kindness, including putting the project on hold until I could finalize pursuit of requests for permission, among numerous other considerations.

One by one, positive response to requests for permission to use excerpts from various books trickled back to me. Each trip to the Post Office box caused excruciating anxiety; but when the one arrived from the U.K., courtesy of Felicity Bryan Literary Agency, advising I could, indeed, use information from Visions of God, by Karen Armstrong, I must admit, I felt my entire body buckle in relief. I brought the positive response home, fell on my knees in thanksgiving, and wept.

The P. S. note of positive expectation on the returned request for permission I received from Dr. Janet Moursund, who authored Approaches to Personality, with Dr. James Geiwitz, set me aglow with joy and confidence. How precious, how important, the encouraging word.

Telephone conversations with Dr. Frank Sulloway, author of FREUD, Biologist of the Mind, and Professor A. C. Spearing, author of a number of books and articles on medieval literature, were as elating and humbling as one can experience (on earth).

In an effort to work out some details regarding my book, I telephoned Professor Spearing, at the University of Virginia, to no avail, and called his residence. Who, to my delight, should answer the phone but his wife, Dr. Elizabeth Spearing, who was visiting from the U.K.? Everything within me ignited with excitement! I had no idea I’d ever have the privilege of speaking with the admired author. Her voice, manner, and attitude were just as I’d envisioned; total British perfection. How honored and grateful I am for the gracious second-miler efforts of both Professor and Dr. Spearing as they sought to enable fruition of this journalistic endeavor. Many thanks as well to Ms. Kate Brotherhood of Penguin (UK) for her accommodation and good wishes.

Imagine the sheer excitement of answering the telephone one day to realize Mr. Avery Corman, author of Oh God! had responded, from New York, to a request for permission, (at his expense)! I was overwhelmed, and will ever treasure his kindness, as well as the informative conversation. He spoke highly of others . . . and therefore, of himself.

I would like to thank Dr. Martin Case for his faith in me as he encouraged the mission to India; and Bishop C. P. Minnick, for offering the important trip to the Holy Land, site of my first transcendence. Both experiences were vital to this writing.

Critical, too, was the broadening of scope received as a student of Dr. Edmond Venator and Dr. Russell Levanway, Chairmen, Emeriti, of the Psychology Department of Millsaps College. They taught me more, in less time, than I’d have imagined possible. I will ever be thankful for them, and for Millsaps College, just for being available.

The patience and efficiency of the Reference staff at the Eudora Welty Library, in Jackson, Ms., were a godsend. I certainly want to thank Gordon, Tommy, Michelle, and Betty, for every effort on my behalf. I should also like to extend gratitude to Billie, Marge, and Frances, at the Magee Library. They could not have been more obliging. All courtesies lightened my burden, and were a kindly gift.

Doubtless, Zan, Sue, Candy, and Mike, at the Post Office are delighted I am finally no longer rushing in at the last minute with a days work of permissions requests, etc., requiring weight check, certification, and return receipt processing. I do thank each one wholeheartedly, and hope each will now enjoy a respite along with me.

God bless my family and friends for their understanding when I was unable to participate in various functions due to pursuit of this project. I’d especially like to thank my daughter, Robin, for the many calls and letters; and my son, Cole, who assisted in a couple of computer crises. Letters of encouragement from my niece, Pamela, were also welcome oases. My cousin, Francis Johnson, was especially considerate in postponing the trip to Australia he’d offered, until production of the book met fruition. It is good I consider humility of highest importance, because producing this book has provided me so much of it. Many thanks to each individual for his patience as I struggled to fulfill God’s expectation of me. You see, I told Him I’d do it . . . steadfastly . . . or die trying.

gwen brinkley

Prologue

T he words, Positively Dangerous were carefully selected as a description of what this book represents. The noted psychiatrist and author, Scott Peck, began his book, The Road Less Traveled, (Simon & Schuster), with the simplistic, but poignant statement, Life is difficult. Those words will, in all probability, take on a whole new meaning for me, as a result of this writing. Another of Dr. Peck’s writings, People of the Lie,(Simon & Schuster), dealing with evil, began with the words, This is a dangerous book. I thought it ironic that I arrived at the same conclusion regarding my own book, which deals with evil’s antithesis, the positive nature of God. Strange, one might surmise, since it is merely a report of memoirs and transcendence. How dangerous can that be? I’ll let the reader decide for himself. As one astute individual once offered, It’s not the mileage that’s important, it’s the stopovers.

It is true I experienced transcendence in Bethlehem in 1981. It is also true there was an ensuing event of authentication in 1989, and another event in 1998, each quite unique.

Prior to the third event, I knew I should formally explain, in writing, the characteristics of the first two. Transcendence, however, is not a subject easily broached, for obvious reasons. I didn’t mention it for quite some time, because details of the first event were not made available to me for eight years. At that point, I lacked courage, I believe, because I knew the thoughts I’d convey, as a result of the events, would be unwelcome in the Christian community, and highly controversial among Biblical pundits.

I did not relish the thought of sticks and stones, which were certain to be forthcoming from them, as well as other entities, as regards the memoirs. I also had a foreboding picture of tedious, sedentary application of effort, which would surely hamper my normal tendency toward unrestricted mobility. Sacrifice of freedom seemed a tall order; not to mention the strain it would place on my extremely hyperopic vision.

Where the other entities are concerned, I couldn’t help reflect on the aftermath of a now-famous Washington, D. C. scandal, where a couple of the females involved made a point of appearing on a popular television talk show for the express purpose of informing the general public that if they were involved in a fatal accident, it was not to be considered an accident. Whatever the failings of the two females, they were sufficiently prescient of the highly effective modus operandi of our efficient governmental intelligentsia, to cover their positions upfront. One must give credit where credit is due. I hereby follow their lead, (with this paragraph).

When a friend and confidant suggested I write a book revealing my transcendental experiences, my response was something like, Oh-h-h m-m-man! In the first place, my eyes just couldn’t take it! I tried to start a book once, and quit after about half a dozen pages. It’s just too exhausting . . . and sedentary. It’s so time-consuming!

My friend grinned at my enthusiastic repulsion. I think it would be really good, he offered, in his shy manner, I’ve never heard of it happening to anyone else. People need to know the things you told me about it.

I’m sure my facial expression must have projected a feeling of forlorn helplessness. I rubbed my forehead with all my fingertips at just the thought of such a burden. More stones, I thought. But I knew my friend was right. I’d been neglecting what I’d known all along was the right thing to do.

In less than two weeks, I began the hand-written manuscript. I found I couldn’t fight my soul, which had been inciting me, anyway; plus the extraneous stimulation of my conscience, at the same time, despite my tendentiousness.

This will seem a strange, albeit paradoxical, book, because the memoirs, early in the writing, would seem to have little to do with the interpretations of the revelations of other persons later on in the book. In fact, the memoirs are quite important, because they are an introduction to this writer, and boldly state the writer’s humble position as relates to transcendence. They unabashedly reveal one need not be of sacrosanct mien to experience transcendence. I am no more than relatively quite ordinary. Transcendence had never so much as crossed my mind before it actually happened to me. It is true-a couple of my life circumstances have not been what one might call run of the mill. It is also true I’ve always seemed to carry an innate positive God-orientation, but could certainly not be labeled a religious freak, as those who make people uncomfortable by their affected religiosity. Basically, my life has been much like that of everyone else. This thought is significant, I believe, because the indication is, if rapture could happen to me, it could happen to anyone. I leave it to the reader to discern for himself why these events, of ineffable proportions, happened to this ordinary individual. I’ve never been more humbled, nor perplexed; yet despite the fact, am imbrued with great confidence as I report.

As I considered taking on this project, I knew exactly where, in my life span, I should begin. It was important to me to venture back, and recollect as closely as I could to the beginning of my life without reaching beyond the limits of my own memory. I did find it necessary to call upon my sister and brother for a couple of childhood, filler details; but for the most part, I’ve relied upon my own recall. Reliance upon the memories of others, I have found, sometimes renders bias and error, however innocent. My purpose in this writing is to reveal truth with as little distortion as possible; however, I have taken the liberty of changing a few names in an effort to spare embarrassment of certain individuals, and for the general protection of others. I began at the point most significant and vivid in my recollection.

Reporting truth is imperative to me, because I’ve found many reports of the truth have not, much to my chagrin, been necessarily so. It is my purpose to reveal the truth I’ve perceived as a result of transcendence so that the reader is given an opportunity to compare it with the beliefs currently comprehended as truth. I’ve made every effort to report without bias, but my early Christian conditioning will be apparent due to the resultant respect I have for both God and Jesus. My esteem for Jesus goes beyond the religious vein. His keen insight into the human condition, and the psychology applied by Him in that ancient time, was so far beyond the scope of the people of the day, (and still is, obviously), it is astonishing. In addition to the aspect of veneration, I find comfort in His humble approach to God. Regrettably, it has been somewhat misunderstood.

I’ve known for years I should reveal my transcendence in writing. I have no more idea as to why I’m led with such verve to report at this particular time, than I have of why the rapture happened to this insignificant sparrow, in the first place.

Like most people, I’m sure I’d probably have taken disclosure of one’s transcendence with the proverbial grain of salt, prior to my own event. Now, I find I’d do almost anything to find just one person who has been privy to the same experience, so as to authenticate my event to others. At this juncture, the only two absolutely sure of my rapture are God and I. I would like so much for someone to affirm my report as the truth. In all humility, I covet confirmation.

Although I’ve been Christian since childhood, I should like to make it clear the purpose of this writing goes beyond any particular religion. I have not studied other religions, but consider all sects simply congregated individual preference of a manner by which to connect with God, (by whatever other name). Transcendence leaves one in a state somehow beyond earthly preference. In fact, it renders a feeling of connectivity surpassing the universe. A whole new vibrant and joyful perspective seems to guides one’s cognition and focus, and an unavoidable positive thrust seems to guide one’s actions, (ergo, this book). The confidence, yet humility, one gains, simply cannot be explained. The means by which one acquires the given knowledge as a result of transcendence, always remains a mystery. It seems to be a method of direct thought transference. Out of my three metaphysical experiences, only the third produced spoken words, and at that, only seven words were emitted, for the intended purpose. Whatever method has been involved, it has not, to my knowledge, been embraced by man. To those who refer to anything but God as awesome, I can only say, Please don’t embarrass yourself. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

Although I’ve kept the actual details of this writing under wraps, methinks I’ve already taken a bit of not-so-subtle flak due to its revealed tenor. It would seem when one mentions a report of transcendence, there are insecure, insipient, individuals who intimate the label false prophet. To them I say, Turn your eyes upon Jesus, who, in His day, was considered false prophet by jealous Pharisees and Sadducees. They, too, were afraid for their own, generally accepted, positions; as were others who, due to ignorance, preferred the position of ostrich with its head buried in the sand. Jesus innocently attempted to enlighten people with His God-given knowledge, which was, in essence, an updating and upgrading of what the people then believed to be the truth. For fear of the message, they killed the messenger. Similarly, those who embraced the message, deified the messenger, replacing idolatry with Jesus; unaware whatever He did, or seemed to be doing, was the work of God Himself. Whereas I’m quite aware of my tenuous (earthly) position in this matter, I’m also aware of my celestially solid one.

I have no idea as to why I’ve been placed in the rare, burdensome, yet auspicious position of having been given a God-instigated and authorized assignment; one I never desired nor expected, but feel relentlessly spurred to complete. It would seem there are those scholars who are so ensconced in their comfortable don’t-rock-the-boat darkness they are ready to snuff out the first hint of light, even before they have the slightest inkling as to what the light is about. Enlightening information seems to be considered the enemy just because it is an anomaly. (That is to say unless, of course, it is uttered by a person who has acquired his information by way of human-originated, human ordained erudition. Should the information come as the result of direct interaction with God, and not of one’s own volition, it’s shot down before it gets off the ground.) The old adage, Shoot first, ask questions later, isn’t applicable. The trend seems more like Don’t even think about questions. Show me a closed mind, and I’ll show you ignorance. In essence, then, there are those Pharisees among us who do unto others what they profess no person should ever do. What it amounts to is negativism promoted under the aegis of holiness, (whose composition is totally positive). That ebullient subject is, essentially, the reason for this writing. Jesus’ purpose was to give man appropriate directions regarding God. Unfortunately, due to naïvete, pride, and whatever other fallibility we hold, man has taken several wrong turns as regards comprehension of His message. It is not a matter of getting a whole new computer. It is merely a matter of filing the obsolete, superstition and myth-laden data, and downloading the God-given, revealed truth of today. Unquestionably, God never changes. Unquestionably, as well, man’s scope of perception and awareness, does. I believe this to be the reason I’m led to reveal the information acquired during transcendence in this manner.

As mentioned earlier, this book will seem paradoxical in nature. On contemplating the Bible, (since transcendence), I couldn’t help consider its own paradoxical structure. Then I realized there is a reason for that. It took the first part of the book (The Old Testament), recording man’s primal view of God, to make us realize the importance of the second part, (The New Testament), which reported Jesus’ attempt to beckon us away from the negative past and direct us toward a positive future. The paradox states, broadly, we have to know what the problem is before undertaking a solution. The problem was obvious to Jesus, and He jumped right on it. The positive information He proclaimed was the most important knowledge ever received by man. It’s unfortunate it was only partially comprehended. For the individual who dares remove his head from the sand, further information regarding God and Jesus are humbly offered herein.

On a lighter plain, the seriousness of this particular assignment, I’ve decided, has required the rules of my late mother’s work ethic: If you have a job to do, you just do it, and do the best job you can . . . and that’s all.

Mother was a unique individual. My aspiration to truth was surely a result of her initial influence. In her nineties, when she returned to the nursing home from the hospital, having suffered severe pneumonia, she asked, What happened to me? Everyone made light of it, and sugarcoated an answer. She turned to my brother and asked, in all seriousness, "Rodney . . . what happened?" Before poor Rodney could respond, she said:

"To fib is to lie,

And to lie is a sin,

When you get to heaven,

You won’t get in!"

(Mother was Polish . . . and Catholic.) We’d all heard her poem all our lives.

Whereas Positively Dangerous concerns serious subject matter, worthy of in-depth deliberation, I hope the reader will settle into the offering with the lighthearted attitude of the liberal renditions interspersed in the memoirs. The danger expressed will make itself known in both sections of the book. I cannot apologize for occasional malediction, and indications thereof, in the memoirs, since they represent what I actually heard, and are truthfully expressive of the personalities of the individuals involved. Neither will I apologize for what might be considered tautology regarding the absolute positive nature of God. In truth, I cannot repeat it enough, in hopes of unfailing absorption. I know God’s positive energy within me is quite evident throughout the text, despite whatever adversity encountered. I hope the reader will enjoy its manifestation in the form of the light-hearted vein of sincerity presented. Does God have a sense of humor? Indeed! Total positivism is total joy!

From early in my life, the clergy have been my best friends. I have always sought their presence, and thought of them as my personal family extension. They have nurtured me and freely shared their knowledge. Now, it’s time to return the favor. Out of caring for them, God, and all people, I would like to share my God-given information. It would seem preparation for this has taken a lifetime.

God has been over my shoulder every step of the way throughout this writing, (as requested). It is vital to note, however—should there be innocent error, it is simply yet another reminder of the fallibility of man, despite God-inspired best of intention.

"To actually know God is to divest oneself

of all ideas of how humans are apt to think of Him."

(Unknown author of

The Cloud of Unknowing, 14th Century.)

God’s writing is in the walls of the Grand Canyon.

(John Wesley Powell, (1834-1902), explorer; ethnologist; Illinois Wesleyan University professor.)

TO THE GLORY OF GOD

In Memory and Honor of the Individuals

Whose Positive Influence

Constructed my Stairway

To His Presence

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For my Family

and

HIS

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Special Appreciation

Dr. Avery C. Manchester

Mr. Arthur Finkelberg

Mr. J. L. Sarrett

Chapter 1

CAPITAL ADJUSTMENTS

T he ominous sound of a gun blast, while indescribable, is not easily forgotten. It can reverberate in the memory for decades. My brother Richard dropped to the ground as though he’d been struck behind the knees with a baseball bat. I stood there, to the right of him, trying to process in my eight-year-old mind, exactly what had happened. Richard, fifteen, had always been the most blithe of spirit, and playful member of the family. He was not above an occasional innocent prank, and I didn’t know whether he was just goofing off again, or what. He quickly got up and darted toward the house, fell onto the grass, quickly bounced up again, and headed for the back porch. He dashed up the steps, with me right behind him, flung open the kitchen door, and collapsed in the middle of the room. Even my older siblings suspected a prank, until they saw a small amount of blood oozing through the little hole on the right side of his shirt.

"Oh my God! Oh my God! Call Mother, call Mother! Call an ambulance! Everyone was frantic!

It was mid-week, and we’d all come home from school for lunch, as most people did in the little town of Newport, New Hampshire, in the 1940’s. Everything was within walking distance, and we were allowed an hour for lunch. This was one of the days when Mother had taken her lunch to work, so we were more or less fending for ourselves under the supervision of my older sisters, Elizabeth and Albertine. Rodney, who was just a year or so Richard’s junior, was also on the scene, and was quickly deployed to ride his bicycle downtown to see if Mother might have had errands to do during her lunch break. Our sister, Sandra, about two at the time, was at the baby sitter’s house.

Richard hadn’t been interested in lunch that day. Mother had finally allowed him to have his dream-come-true; a gun that a neighbor had offered for sale. He couldn’t wait to get home and take it to the back yard where he already had a target in place. I followed him out the door so that I could watch him shoot. I’d never seen anyone shoot a gun before.

Oh, how Richard had wanted that gun, and oh, how Mother had not wanted him to have it. I don’t like guns! she’d say, in her stern, clipped New England accent, each time Richard pled with her. Finally, as his birthday approached, he made it clear he didn’t want anything but the gun as a present. Mother acquiesced. He’d worn her down.

Pretty soon, Mother came running through the hallway door. Oh my God Richard! she wept. Damn the guns, anyway! Damn ‘em all! My siblings continued to agonize as the ambulance attendants, who’d followed Mother in, lifted Richard onto the stretcher, and carried him down the long hallway. We all gathered outside at the rear of the ambulance, which was actually the local dual-purpose hearse, as they prepared to slide him into it. I remember standing right beside my outstretched best friend, kissing him on the forehead, and saying, Bye Richard . . . See ya later . . . I love you, Richard! In my youthful innocence, I’m sure I did not understand the seriousness of the situation. I was sure everything would be all right.

The next time I saw him, he was in a casket in our living room. I can still remember the fragrance of all the flowers. He’d died at the hospital. Mother carried that burden for the rest of her life.

The report from the hospital revealed the twenty-two-gauge rifle had sent its projectile into his body at the point of the liver, but because of the nature of that particular shell, enumerable tiny pellets disbursed on reaching its target. It was discovered the gun had a defect, but we never could figure out why he’d dropped it, causing the fatal wound. Rodney was so distraught and impassioned by the whole event he took the gun to a nearby river, and threw it in. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but as I matured, I couldn’t help realize the fatality could easily have been me instead of Richard, since I’d been standing to his right, just inches away.

Although it rendered great sadness to all of us, I wonder, now, if Mother ever came to the realization the death of her son was the beginning of true life for her eight-year-old daughter.

Mother came from a long line of Catholics, and Dad’s family had been Episcopalian, (although I’d never known him to actually attend any church). Anyway, Dad wasn’t around a good bit of the time. Much like the Wizard of Oz, complete with multiple talents and an inquisitive and inventive mind, he wasn’t a bad man; he just wasn’t a good father.

The local Catholic priest Mother tried to contact to perform the funeral was out of town for the week. In her desperation for some form of clergy, she called the local Methodist minister, and Rev. Franklin P. Frye presented himself, in a very humble and comforting manner, and officiated at the funeral.

I had never been to church. Amid his ministering to my family, Rev. Frye picked up on that. The next thing I knew, I was going to Sunday school and church, and singing in the youth choir, along with his son, Donald, who just happened to have been my own age. Donald was kind of cute, and at the same time, kind of awkward, I thought; but he seemed to sing very well, and wasn’t shy about it. He seemed to have such confidence. Why not? He could recite all the books of the Bible! I thought that was spectacular! It also made me think if he could do those things, so could I. Pretty soon, I was a regular soloist for the choir, and reciting the books of the Bible became a piece of cake.

As is Methodist custom, Rev. Frye was moved to another town before too long, and Rev. Maurice H. Porter came on the scene in his place. Daddy Porter, as the youth soon called him, turned out to be my father in lieu of my own father.

What a match we were. The tall, slightly portly, always vested, average-looking man, whose face and nose displayed a bit of discoloration due, probably, to a birthmark, was sent to me straight from heaven, I’ve often thought. The articulate minister, of world-class ability, had been a product of Boston University, with a minor in church music. His heartfelt caring induced him to give organ and voice recitals as church benefits, and he seemed custom-made for the needs of the parish, and little Gwenny, in particular. He nurtured and encouraged my vocal talent, and modeled highest quality values in a light-hearted manner so appealing I couldn’t wait to be in his presence. He was a joy. The Church of the Good Shepherd, Methodist, was the name of our church, and he lived the name to the hilt.

Aside from Rev. Porter’s duties in the local church on Sunday morning, he presented a service at a much smaller church each Sunday afternoon in a tiny out-lying rural community called West Springfield. Very often, I was in tow for the purpose of singing soli for the congregation there. There were many older people in the congregation, and they seemed fascinated and delighted one as young as I performed with such aplomb. I was always somewhat amused and perplexed by their enthusiasm at what seemed to me such a simple thing to do. The fact that the organ occasionally broke down, and I was forced to perform a cappella, seemed a big deal to them while seeming second nature to me. I almost preferred the alternative, since the archaic organ required pumping of the feet to make it play. I enjoyed the absence of the squeaking of the pedals. I learned adjustment at a very tender age.

In addition to my church performance encouragement, Mother decided I should take acrobatic lessons. A couple of girls in the neighborhood practiced their acrobatic lessons on our front lawn, and it didn’t take long for me to learn to do the same things they were doing. Before long, I was performing both acrobatics and ballet, most often, in combination. I also began taking piano lessons, which introduced me to the beauty, enthrallment, and heart rending potential of classical music.

My dance instructor, Jill Northrup, was an attractive grey-haired woman of considerable flair. She was a former Rockette, of Radio City Music Hall fame, in New York, in her earlier days, and was an accomplished pianist, as well. I was truly privileged to be her pupil. She instructed me in dance, and incorporated my singing ability into my performances; soon I became a song and dance performer. Whereas she was not a vocal instructor, per se, her coaching as regards the importance of elocution and projection of the voice became invaluable assets. I enjoyed learning to perform with her at the helm, but Miss Northrup, I soon learned, was a workhorse, and she drove me like one. I seemed to be her little star, and she enjoyed much accolade for my performances. I knew she was proud of me, even though she never expressed it in words; but in rehearsal, she was on me like a piranha, screaming at me if I wasn’t reaching her standard. After experiencing her twice a week, I was more than ready for the respite I found in Rev. Porter and the church. Ms. Northrup accomplished her purpose, however; as did my mother. Both were old-world disciplinarians. Exposure to the two of them caused whatever else I encountered to seem relatively easy. I carry their discipline code and work ethic to this day.

Miss Northrup was a good-hearted person, though. She made arrangements for her performers to travel, by bus, to the White River Junction, Vt., Veterans Hospital, as well as to Fort Devens, Mass., where we performed in the wards for the soldiers who were being treated there. They seemed to get a big kick out of us.

By the time I was in junior high school, I was already being asked to perform in the annual operettas, playing leading roles. The reviews were most kind and encouraging. At fourteen, I was asked to perform in a minstrel show put on by the local Legionnaires, for some good cause. Rev. Porter was also asked. That I would perform was no problem. Daddy Porter, however, was a whole other story. One of the members of the church was a judge, who, among a few others of the church elite, was of the opinion (strong opinion), Rev. Porter had no business participating in a minstrel show, whatever his talent, or for whatever good cause. Having been apprised of the on-going rehearsals, it had come to their attention that, not only did he intend to participate, as requested; he would be singing Old Man River, complete with the lyrics get a little drunk, and ya land in jail!

The term minstrel, would seem relatively benign and unexciting, one might think; but this particular one seemed to bring professional talent out of the woodwork. People I’d formerly taken for granted in the daily grind were soon to show me what they were really made of, beginning with the local postman, Charlie Jobes. As far as I’d known, Charlie was simply the tall, lanky, postal deliverer with a pointed nose much like that of the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz. I’d see him, most days, with his mail satchel thrown over his shoulder, endlessly walking from door to door. Little did I know his passion was the theater, and he spent whatever time he could performing in such places as The New London Playhouse, among other theatrical engagements. Charlie had more talent in just his little finger than I could begin to describe, and was a pianist whose command reminded one of Victor Borge. He could flip from classical to ragtime in a heartbeat, and modulate to any key in the twinkling of an eye. He was a musical joy, and he would be directing the minstrel. He selected performers for the show who could meet his standard. I was privileged to be among them. All the participants were a good bit older than my fourteen years. It didn’t take long for Charlie’s adept piano ability to spoil Gwenny for any other accompanist for the rest of her life. I was so spoiled, in fact, that on more than one occasion since then, when I’ve run into an accompanist I was sure was inadequate for my need, I’d discreetly suggest, because of the unique complication of the musical background I required, it might be better if I performed a cappella. Charlie had ruined me for life. The image of the Tin Man faded from view post haste, to be replaced by that of The Wizard, himself.

Despite the negatives slung at him, Rev. Porter performed, (wonderfully), in the Charlie-directed minstrel. The show was a smash, and we both wound up on the front page of the local Argus-Champion newspaper, and were shown in the Claremont Eagle, the publication of a larger city, ten miles away, as well.

Another activity observed askance by some of the church members was the attention Rev. Porter and his loyal MYF were affording the Mormon missionaries who were beginning to show up regularly in the area. The young fellows, called Elders, were sacrificing two years of college to spread the view of Christianity according to The Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints. Having doors slammed in their faces wherever they went seemed to be more the rule than the exception. Not realizing it was a parsonage, they rang the bell at Rev. Porter’s house one day, and soon they were attending our youth meetings as often as possible, and sharing their church views and talents with us. I told Mother about them, and she invited them to dine with us, at home, on several occasions. How they relished the home-cooked meals. We were both highly impressed by the young men. I thought they must surely be saints to endure all their sacrifice. They’d rented a musty basement apartment and lived at poverty level, and most of the time, walked wherever they went. Occasionally, they had bicycles, but bicycles were not a whole lot of comfort during frigid New Hampshire winters blanketed with ice and often flurrying snow.

In our little town of about five thousand, Rev. Porter was as mighty a representative of Jesus Christ as I’ve ever known. His oratory was surpassed only by his deeds. The entire community was better because of him, although I’m not sure they realized it at the time. In the church, he was Pastor and Youth Director all in one, caring for each individual as a father—(as The Father)—ever patient, caring, all-inclusive, and never adjudicative. How well I remember his musical concerts to raise money so that members of the Youth Fellowship would be able to attend MYF camp during summer vacation.

Aside from a few pious, authoritarian types, the people of the church genuinely loved Rev. Porter. A feeling of warmth seemed to take over whenever he entered a room. But the authoritarian types were influential; some were on the various church Boards and Councils. Eventually, they made it clear a pastoral change was in order. I was only glad it didn’t take place before I graduated from high school and left the little town.

It’s obvious fact, and any psychologist will affirm, so much more is caught than taught amid human dynamics. The Influence of adult behavior upon a young mind is incalculable. I know God, Himself, placed Rev. Porter, who unmistakably modeled the ways of Jesus for me, in my life. His influence nurtured my sensitive nature to the point where I became a missionary-of-sorts, wherever I was, at a very early age. I was always sensitive to the mental anguish of others, despite the jealousy of some peers, who, understandably, coveted the laudatory effect of my stage performances. They had no idea of what I had to go through to achieve peak performance, keep up honor roll grades, participate in church and school extra-curricular activities, work after school, and at the same time, fill the roll of number one house boy and baby sitter at home. I tried to make a special effort to be kind to them, even though some seemed to look for reasons to find fault with me. But my kindness was rewarded on many fronts, and outweighed whatever inconsequential trivia. The majority of my classmates seemed to have respect for me. They elected me to class offices, including co-editor of the Year Book. They also elected me High School Carnival Queen, one year. I was really surprised at that, but so delighted, because it was an indication of friendship.

I recall, while in high school, inviting a couple of girls, (individually), home with me for lunch. Our home was modest, since Mother was, for the most part, the breadwinner, and Dad’s provisions were occasional, at best. We had little to offer, but I discovered just listening to a person’s grievances could be an outstanding elixir for them, and was very satisfying and fulfilling to me, even though sharing and absorbing their agony was taxing. One particular girl was a classmate who, while everyone else seemed to be enjoying the vestiges of youth, had a constant dour outlook. It always seemed to tug at something within me when I encountered a person of low spirit. It was as though it was my personal responsibility to do something about it. The girl was fraught with a negative attitude one could hardly overlook; attempting to be nice to her was not the easiest thing to do. She seemed to resent the whole world. Her caustic remarks about everyone and everything, caused classmates to avoid her if they could. As we chatted over lunch one day, she confided she felt no one at home cared anything about her. I pointed out to her they surely must, just based on all the new clothes she always seemed to sport. There had to be some caring in there somewhere. I told her my clothes were either hand-me-downs, home-made, or a result of having taken a job after school at the local Sweet Shoppe, at one point, and later, at the local department store. She told me I was lucky I was allowed to work in town; she was expected to do all the work involved in a rural farm setting, including pitching hay.

She was not a pretty girl, as pretty girls go. She had a bulky frame, and looked very strong; but her heavy frame caused her to lumber, flat-footed, in an awkward gait. Her teeth were very crooked, but she kept them very well polished. I tried to remind her, however, her naturally curly strawberry-blond hair was to die for, and I’d have given anything to have her delicate blue eyes and fantastic Nordic skin.

I think she was sixteen or so when she developed Leukemia. She’d evidently asked to see me, and one of her family members called to say they’d drive me out to their country home if I’d be willing to make the trip. (I didn’t drive until I was in my early twenties.) I was surprised, when I saw her, that she didn’t look particularly ill. I suppose, due to the innocence of my youth, I had no idea as to how a person with that particular disease was supposed to look. It was almost as though she’d taken on a kind of radiance, and she seemed more cheerful than I’d ever seen her. Boy,