A Grateful Life: Reflections of a Pastor Abundantly Blessed in Life and Ministry

By Terry L. Folk

It is my desire in the pages of this memoir to express my deep and sincere gratitude to so many people who have reached out to me with caring, encouragement, and kindness in the various chapters of my life. Many of these individuals are highlighted in this book; they are indelibly engrained in my memory.

Above all, I reserve the most resounding shouts of praise and thanksgiving to the loving and almighty God, my Creator and Sustainer, who has stayed by my side each moment of my life, whether I have realized it or not, not allowing me to drift too far from Him, always lifting me up when I have fallen or become discouraged, charting a wonderful course for me to follow, and giving my life meaning and purpose … and my Savior Jesus Christ, who has forgiven my sins and given me the promise of abundant life in this world and eternal life in the next.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664235687

Terry L. Folk

The Rev. Terry L. Folk served in pastoral ministry in the Moravian Church for 41 years. A graduate of Albright College in his hometown of Reading, Pennsylvania, Terry earned his Masters of Divinity degree from Moravian Theological Seminary in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Ordained in 1978, Terry served congregations in New Philadelphia, Ohio; Thurmont, Maryland: Edmonton, Alberta, Canada; and York and Nazareth, Pennsylvania. In his retirement, Terry seized the opportunity to return to his home congregation in Reading as a part-time pastor, leading worship, providing pastoral care, and assisting in the food ministries of the church to impoverished folks in the neighborhood and congregation in which he was raised. Now retired, Terry continues to volunteer in this vital ministry. Terry is married to the former Julia Cranford, who has had an essential ministry of her own as a social worker for 41 years. They have three children and one grandson.

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TEDDY

Theodore Dennis Folk

(1951 – 1964)

I believe the course of my life was determined even before I was born. Theodore Dennis Folk was born on December 11, 1951, the first child of my parents, Clifford and Joan Folk. Tragically, Teddy was born with serious birth defects – spinal bifida with hydrocephalus. He would be bed-ridden, flat on his back for all eleven and a half years of his life, confined to an institution. Unfortunately, medical science in the early 1950’s had not progressed to the point where anything could be done to improve Teddy’s condition.

Mom told the horrifying story of waiting in her room at the Reading Hospital to see her baby for the first time. The nurse came in with a beautiful baby boy, walked past my mother’s bed, and presented the child to Mom’s roommate, who had given birth about the same time. Mom asked the nurse, When will I get to see my baby? The nurse, obviously uncomfortable with the question, turned and walked out of the room without saying a word. Mom knew instantly that something was terribly wrong.

Mom and Dad were devastated by the news. I can’t imagine a greater shock for new parents. Having a child whose needs were as extensive as Teddy’s changed their lives completely and decimated the dreams they had for their son. There was no doubting the love they had for Teddy, and the fact that they would have done anything they could to get him the care he needed. But they were extremely limited in their options. Teddy would require institutionalized care for the entirety of his life, and they were not in a financial position to be able to afford medical care.

There was no recourse but to admit their son to a state facility, and that place would be Penn Hurst State Hospital in Spring City, Pennsylvania, northeast of Philadelphia, about an hour’s drive from Reading. Penn Hurst did not have the best of reputations, but it was their only alternative. The facility was originally called The Eastern Pennsylvania State Institution for the Feeble-Minded and Epileptic when it opened in 1903. It housed patients with a variety of needs, but primarily severely mentally and physically disabled individuals. As early as the 1960’s, while Teddy was still in their care, there were numerous lawsuits filed against Penn Hurst with accusations of patient neglect and abuse. The facility later closed in 1987.

Nevertheless, Mom would always speak highly of the nurses and staff at Penn Hurst for the attentive care they provided for Teddy. They would have settled for nothing less. I never heard them complain. Mom and Dad made regular trips to visit Teddy, and the nurses always expressed high praise for their patient, citing Teddy’s pleasant demeanor, cooperative spirit, and intelligence. Occasionally, my sister, Eileen, and I would ride along on those excursions, but we were never permitted to enter the building to visit Teddy. Mom would visit, while Dad stayed with us in the car, and then they would switch places. My childhood memory of Penn Hurst was not a positive one by any means. It was a dreadful and frightening place to me.

On one occasion, I remember my parents bringing Teddy home and setting up his crib in one of the bedrooms upstairs. Mom decided that she wanted to have closer contact with her son, and she wanted to try to care for Teddy herself. But his needs exceeded the level of care that even she, who had a superb gift for caregiving, could offer. After a few weeks, Teddy had to be returned to Penn Hurst, which was a very sad day for Mom especially. Those few days Teddy spent at home are the only memories I have of seeing Teddy and spending any time with him.

When Mom became pregnant with me in November of 1952, Dad purchased a #2056 Lionel freight train with six cars, including an engine and coal car, in hopeful anticipation of the birth of a healthy child. On August 11, 1953, twenty months to the day after Teddy was born, I made my entrance into the world. There was great rejoicing in the household when I, a healthy child, entered the family. Dad set up the train set on a platform in the basement, with a village surrounding the tracks, for my first Christmas a few months later, which reappeared annually throughout my childhood.

A Brother’s Influence

How did Teddy impact the course of my life? For one, the difficult situation of his disability put a tremendous strain on my parents’ marriage, which is certainly understandable. When I was a little older, I did the math and realized that Teddy was conceived out of wedlock. Yes, this happened in those days as well. I suspect that there was some guilt involved, especially with Mom but possibly also with Dad, that they may have perceived that God was punishing them in some way with Teddy’s abnormal birth. Let me clearly state that I don’t believe in a God who responds in such a harsh and judgmental way to such indiscretions; instead, He offers us grace and calls us to responsibility for our actions, also providing us with the strength to handle our challenges. Mom and Dad married on May 5, 1951, seven months before Teddy’s birth, and certainly loved their first son and cared for him as best as they possibly could.

More personally, even in my early years, I realized that high expectations had been placed on me to do well in my studies and to succeed in life. At a young age, I knew that college was expected to be a part of my future. I always did well in school and brought home report cards with excellent grades, but if a B appeared on the card, I was gently encouraged to come back next term with an A in its place. As I was growing up, I always felt that my parents were extremely protective of me, which I rebelled against in my teenage years … but in retrospect, I understand why my parents sheltered me somewhat.

The most significant impact Teddy’s life had on me, which has become clearer to me as my life has progressed, is the profound sense of survivors’ guilt that has afflicted me throughout the years. Why was Teddy the one born with a devastating health condition, and not me? Why was I the one who could run and play ball and attend school and enjoy all the wonderful experiences of life, while Teddy was imprisoned in his bed his entire life, denied those opportunities? That has been a heavy burden for me to bear.

Mercifully, on May 28, 1963 our loving God rescued Teddy from his physical prison and received him home into His heavenly Kingdom, where my brother is now healthy and whole. Though only eleven years old at the time of his death, Teddy had grown physically to the point that he required an adult-sized casket. I vividly remember the somber days surrounding the funeral, filled with tears and grief for everyone in my family. I know that my parents, Mom in particular, never really got over the loss of Teddy. As a child, I remember Mom and I were watching a movie on television one night, a Western that she had seen before. At one point in the movie, she referenced a woman in the film and said, No mother should ever have to go through what she will. The woman’s son later died tragically in the movie. There is nothing worse for a parent than to suffer the death of a child.

I think of my brother Teddy often, and have come to realize how God used his short and limited life to impact my own. As I have struggled with Why him and not me? … I realize how much Teddy’s life has motivated me to live in a manner that not only honors God and my parents, but Teddy as well. I have dealt with his unfortunate circumstances and early death by putting more value on my own life and how I would live it, to ensure that my life amounted to something of consequence. I studied hard in school to equip myself to that end. I became a more responsible person and developed a determination to achieve my goals in life. Eventually that would lead me to respond to God’s calling to the pastoral ministry. In that respect, Teddy’s life has left a powerful and positive impact upon me,

Of course, I think often of how fantastic it would have been to have an older brother to play with and learn from, someone whom I could look up to and lean on, someone I might still have in my life as a good brother, advisor, and friend. I guarantee you, the first thing I am going to do when I arrive in heaven is to get a baseball, a bat, and a couple of gloves … and guess what Teddy and I are going to do? That is a reunion I am so looking forward to.

Can you see how for me, through my faith in Christ and my belief in the power of His Resurrection … my haunting memories of Teddy’s death have become healing, hopeful retrospections that have dramatically shaped and transformed my life? Those memories will turn into a very real, face-to-face relationship, brother to brother, at some point in the future.

A brother is born for adversity (Proverbs 17:17).

WHEN I WAS A

LITTLE TYKE

As noted, I was born on August 11, 1953 at the Reading Hospital, just a few weeks after Joseph Stalin died. I’m glad I didn’t share the earth with that ruthless Soviet dictator. I arrived in this world at 3:56 AM. Having accomplished that, I was never again an early riser. I was measured at twenty inches long and weighed in at seven pounds, seven and three quarter ounces. My mother shared a room with Mrs. Farina, whose son, Charles, was born the day before me. Charlie would later sit in the seat in front of me in seventh grade homeroom at Northeast Junior High.

"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together

in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully

and wonderfully made (Psalm 139: 13-14)."

I went home from the hospital directly to my great-grandparents’ home at 1344 Birch Street in Reading, where I stayed for the first two months of my life … then to my grandparents’ house at 3 Madison Avenue in Mohnton for six months … then to an apartment at 367 North Greenwich Street in Reading, where I resided for a year and a half. Was I wearing out my welcome everywhere I lived?

In the midst of all these moves, a very significant event occurred on November 29, 1953. I was baptized at the Nativity Lutheran Church on North 13th Street in Reading, my mother’s home congregation, by the Rev. Luke Sweitzer, beginning my journey as a Christian.

The Baby Book that my mother kept of me reveals that my first venture away from home of any consequence was at the eight-month mark - to Harrisburg, the Pennsylvania state capital. Why, I wonder? I really wasn’t impressed, and it certainly did not inspire within me any interest for a career in politics. The next month I made a longer trip to Cumberland, Maryland, where my mother was playing in a tournament with her softball team, the Crystalettes. That was much more fun and impactful upon my life. Then it was off to Dorney Park in Allentown the next month where I took a ride around the park on the little train.

Finally, it was time for the big trip – three days in Atlantic City, New Jersey, just a few weeks before my first birthday. My mother reported that I enjoyed the beach and the water, and that they couldn’t keep him (me) out of the water, and that I was unafraid of the water. Despite my apparent love of the ocean and lack of fear of the water on that vacation, I never did learn how to swim, despite several attempts in my younger years; I am a sinker, instead of a swimmer.

Dietary Issues

I have a good friend in the ministry, Mark Newman, who shared with me his earliest life memory. He was lying on his back in his crib, and remembers his mother folding his hands and teaching him how to pray. What a remarkable early life experience to recall, a perfect prelude for someone who would later become a pastor.

My first memory in this life would not have portended such a career for me. While still a toddler, I recall sitting alone in the back yard of our home on Locust Street snacking on (prepare yourself!) dog poop! Apparently, my zest for this culinary non-delicacy was not dissuaded by my sense of taste. Yummy! I remember the horrified look on my mother’s face when she finally discovered me engaging in this unsavory activity, followed by the most thorough head to toe cleansing I have ever endured. The scrubbing was so intense and comprehensive that my very soul may have been cleansed as well. I’m not sure what my fecal feast might have predicted for my future career, but thankfully, the Lord obviously was not deterred by this repulsive early life experience.

A Drinking Problem

There was one other incident from my early childhood that I remember quite vividly. When I was three or four years of age, I was again in the backyard with Mom on a hot summer day, as she was hanging clothes on the line to dry. I was thirsty, and asked if she could get me something to drink. She told me to wait until she finished the task. Well, I decided I could take care of the matter myself; I’ll show Mom what a big boy I am! I went into the basement, found a cup, located a jug that I presumed contained water, poured myself a cupful, and took one large gulp. The taste was not pleasant and refreshing, to say the least. What I actually drank was Clorox! I immediately felt quite sick, and staggered out to the yard to my mother; one whiff of my breath, and she knew exactly what I had imbibed. The next thing I remember, Dad was driving me to the hospital at high speed. That experience certainly could have been the death of me, but thank the Lord and the physician in the emergency room, I survived. To this day, I can still recall the taste of Clorox clearly.

I also had a chronic problem with nosebleeds as a child. They would come with no warning whatsoever: at home, church, school, on the ballfield, anywhere. I remember a trip or two to the hospital, when we couldn’t get the bleeding under control. It was a real nuisance! I dreaded my regular visits to Dr. Penna’s office to have my nose cauterized with acid.

Our First Home

In December of 1955, my parents purchased the home at which I would live for the next twelve years, 1319 Locust Street in Reading, just three doors down and a quarter of a block from the Reading Moravian Church. From my standpoint, that decision by my parents to settle on Locust Street was an excellent one. I started toddling off to Sunday School at the church when I was two years old. I have often wondered how different my life might have been if my parents hadn’t made that move into that neighborhood in the northeast section of Reading. I would have missed out on being a part of a loving, nurturing community of faith that would lay the spiritual framework for my calling to the ministry years later.

The Lord blesses the home of the righteous (Proverbs 3:33).

HONORING MY

GRANDPARENTS

My life growing up in the 1300 block of Locust Street in Reading was basically lived within the confines of one-half square mile. I roamed the streets freely and safely, and I can honestly say that I knew every crack in the sidewalk. I was very blessed to have a close relationship with six grandparents who lived within that area. One block up on Birch Street were my great-grandparents on my mother’s side. My grandmother and step-grandfather lived outside of town in the very early years of my life. After my great-grandparents died, they moved back into the city to the same house at 1344 Birch Street. My grandparents on my father’s side resided only three blocks down at 1415 Moss Street.

I spent a considerable amount of my time in my younger days just roaming back and forth between the two, especially during the summer months. I would stop in for a visit almost every day, sometimes for lunch, but more often just to raid the refrigerator for a snack, for which I was never denied. I would also try to be helpful, offering to run errands to Maxie’s or Anna Mae’s, just two of the many small corner stores in our neighborhood. Of course, my offers of assistance were not purely benevolent; I usually received something out of the deal, be it a candy bar, a coke, or a fudgesicle. In my later years, I would make myself more useful by mowing my grandmother’s grass. It was a small lawn, but the task took more time because of the old-fashioned, non-motorized lawnmower I had to use, pushing it up two steep embankments, with lots of trimming to do with hand grass clippers. The dollar I received for my efforts made the job worthwhile.

Allow me to introduce you to my grandparents.

EDWIN E. HOFFMAN

Grandpop

(1879 – 1965)

I was fortunate to have memories of my great-grandparents. Because of shorter life expectancies in those days, not everyone was blessed with that opportunity. For the first decade of my life, I had the chance to get to know Grandpop and Grandmom, (I pronounced their names more like Grammum and Grampop), grandparents of my mother. My great-grandfather was born on July 2, 1878 in Robeson Township, outside of Reading, Pennsylvania. He was the son of William and Susan (Sheeler) Hoffman. He married my great-grandmother, Mary Brown, on March 29, 1902, and they had two daughters: my grandmother, Helen, and my great-aunt, Ruth.

The Rocking Chairs

In my early days, I remember sitting out on the closed-in back porch, as my Grandpop enjoyed doing each day, where he surveyed his back yard, the back alley, and the backyards of his neighbors. There were two large rocking chairs on the porch, and when I first sat in the one that was always available to me, my feet did not reach the floor. It was a rite of passage for me when my legs finally grew long enough for me to touch bottom. We would chat for a while, about nothing in particular that I can recall. We never talked about his life and career. I later learned that Grandpop was employed by Moore Body Company for most of his working years. I’m not sure exactly what skills he had or the nature of his work, but I figure he labored hard throughout his years to eke out a reasonable living for his family.

Grandpop enjoyed chewing tobacco, not a habit that I would endorse. I can’t imagine that it was an activity that I ever would have considered under normal circumstances, but the smell and the spitting effectively quelled any notion of me ever engaging in this endeavor. Between the rocking chairs on the back porch was a spittoon. Grandpop would rock for a while, and then lean to his left and spit into the spittoon. The problem was, as Grandpop got older, his aim became poorer, and our visits grew shorter; he would occasionally miss the mark and overshoot the target. When my sneakers and lower pants legs got splattered, it was time to say goodbye and run off to the playground.

The door to the porch was often held open by a unique door-stopper, an old cast-iron battered green frog. My mother also employed it in her home, and I am pleased that it fell into my possession. I have also used it as a doorstop and keep it in a visible place where I will come across it from time to time. Whenever I do, I think of those days on the back porch with Grandpop. My great-grandfather died on May 26, 1965 at the age of eighty-six, outliving his beloved wife by two years.

MAYME E. (BROWN) HOFFMAN

Grandmom

(1880 – 1963)

My great-grandmother, Grandmom, was born on November 17, 1879 in Gibralter, Pennsylvania, a small village a few miles southeast of Reading. She was the daughter of Albert and Sallie (Van Pelt) Brown. My recollection is that Grandmom preferred to be called "Mary. I remember a handful of visits our family made to Gibralter when I was younger to visit a pleasant, older couple; I knew them as Mr. and Mrs. Hawes. They were former neighbors and close friends of my great-grandparents and my grandmother. We would later make regular Sunday excursions there from time to time to visit the graves of Grandpop and Grandmom, who were buried in the St. John’s Church Cemetery.

Grandmom was a dear sweet lady who always had a smile and could never do enough for me when I visited. She had earned a reputation as an excellent cook, although she never wrote down a recipe (just a pinch of this and a little bit of that, she would say). This was much to the dismay of my mother, a fine cook in her own right, who never could replicate her grandmother’s culinary masterpieces after her death, for the lack of certain ingredients and measurements.

Crunchy Eggs

My elementary school did not serve lunch to the students, but was only a couple of blocks away from my great-grandparents’ home on Birch Street … so on occasion when my mother had something else going on, I would go there for lunch before heading back to school for the afternoon. The menu was always the same, either by her suggestion or my request – a soft-boiled egg and a slice of toast. As Grandmom was well along in years by this time, her eyesight was beginning to fail her, so sometimes the eggs would be a little crunchy (if you know what I mean). But I never voiced a complaint; I didn’t want to hurt Grandmom’s feelings.

Grandmom died in 1963 at the age of eighty-three. She and Grandpop were married for sixty-one years, quite an accomplishment in those days. My mother was the primary caregiver for her grandparents in their last days, tending to their needs with great care and compassion. Mom loved them dearly, as she was raised by them after her father left during the Depression. My grandmother needed to enter the work force, and Grandpop and Grandmom nobly stepped up to care for their granddaughter.

I wished I would have learned more about my great-grandparents’ life and experiences, as they were young in the later nineteenth century, experienced the beginnings of the twentieth century, and saw so many changes as the 1900s moved along: airplanes, automobiles, electricity, indoor plumbing, the telephone, television, etc.

Their death in the mid 1960s and the ensuing funerals, along with my brother Teddy’s sandwiched in between, were only twenty-one months apart. It seemed that our family was spending so much of our time in funeral homes and cemeteries, grieving the loss of dear loved ones. This period of time was a stressful one for our family, especially for my mother, seriously influencing the dynamics of our family life. In reflection, I realize that much of my childhood was spent in a household with the dismal mood of grief pervading it. These events had quite an impact upon me personally, a young boy not yet a teenager, who was forced to ponder the reality of death much sooner in life than most. Thank goodness that I had a developing faith that I could lean on!

"God will wipe away every tear from their eyes. There will

be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the

old order of things has passed away (Revelation 21:4)."

CLARENCE CLIFFORD FOLK

Pappy

(1896 – 1978)

Pappy was born on April 14, 1896 in Temple, Pennsylvania. He was the tenth of eleven children born twenty years apart to Ephraim and Catherine (Seidel) Folk. He had seven brothers: Charles, Hiester, William, James Howard, Henry Milton, Arthur, and an infant boy who died after eight days; and three sisters: Clara, Mary, and Estella. He was baptized July 26, 1896 at Salem Shalters Reformed and Lutheran Union Church by the Rev. E.S. Brownmiller. He confirmed his faith in Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior on March 31, 1912 at the age of fifteen, one in a class of seventy-two confirmands.

Pappy’s early years were spent on the family farm. When he moved into the city after his marriage, his occupation was that of a huckster, the Pennsylvania Dutch term that defines a man who sells groceries from a wagon or a truck. Pappy would go out to the farm, load up the fruits and vegetables, and take them into the city to sell on the streets. The huckster was known to acknowledge his arrival in a neighborhood with a loud yell, and folks would then come out of their homes to purchase the produce. For most of his adult working years, Pappy was a molder for the Pratt and Cady Division, American Chain and Cable Company in Reading, Pennsylvania. He was also a volunteer fireman. He married my grandmother, Elda Adam, on September 1, 1923 in Elkton, Maryland, a common wedding destination across the Pennsylvania border for elopers where you could be married quickly and less expensively.

My visits with Pappy and Nanny Folk were frequent, ideally located for an afternoon snack, with potato chips, cookies, ice cream, soda, and other treats always available. I never took anything without asking, and I was never denied.

Cigars and Chats

Pappy smoked Phillie Blunt cigars, and he would often ask me to run to the corner store to purchase two packs for him. There were five cigars in a pack, thirty-nine cents a pack; two packs cost seventy-eight cents, with twenty-two cents in change. I was allowed to keep the change, which was handy pocket money for a kid in the early 1960s. To be truthful, sometimes I would just drop by and ask, Pappy, are you in need of some cigars? – just to maintain my cash flow.

Pappy and I were especially close. We would sit in his living room, and as he smoked one of those cigars, we would engage in long discussions on a variety of subjects. I was very inquisitive, and would pepper him with questions about his life and experiences and opinions about what was going on in the world. Though I was just a youngster, he always treated me as an adult, responding to my queries honestly and openly. I learned so much from him, whether it be about his experiences as a soldier in World War I, the Depression which he endured as a young father raising his family in the 1930’s, current events, politics, or most often, baseball.

The Doughboy

Pappy was a veteran of World War I, enlisting in the Army on May 1, 1917 when the United States entered the war in support of the British, French, and Allied forces in their fight against Germany and the Axis powers. He had just celebrated his twenty-first birthday seventeen days before. After some training, this young man who had grown up on the family farm and never travelled very far from home, embarked on quite an adventure as a soldier, a doughboy in General John J. Black Jack Pershing’s American Expeditionary Force. Their mission was to break the logjam of this four-year conflict in Europe, which had stalemated into trench warfare, costing the lives of millions of soldiers and civilians.

As a private in the 19th Field Artillery, Battery 13, Pappy’s unit saw their first action at the pivotal Battle of St. Mihiel in northeast France (September 12-16, 1918). Also in France at the time was Captain Harry Truman, who distinguished himself in World War I as the commander of an artillery division, and later became the thirty-third President of the United States in 1945. The Germans surprised the Americans at St. Mihiel, but their counterattack repelled the Germans, a resounding victory for the Expeditionary forces. It was the first combat experience of the war for the Americans, and they proved their mettle to the French and British forces. It was also the decisive battle which turned the tide of the War in favor of the Allies, beginning the push of the Germans back toward their homeland once and for all. The War would eventually end two months later, when the Armistice was signed on November 11, 1918 (at the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month). Pappy would remain in Europe for several months as part of an Occupation Force.

Pappy spoke with me, as I became older, of the horrors of war he observed. He saw no glamor in this war, which was billed as the war to end all wars. In particular, he spoke of the soldiers’ greatest fear - the use of poisonous mustard gas by both sides that would literally burn and maim the skin and lungs, which could result in a horrible death in a short period of time if you failed to secure your gas mask securely and expeditiously. Private Clarence Folk received an honorable discharge from the United States Army on July 29, 1919 at Camp Dix, New Jersey.

Uncle Milton

Five brothers of my grandfather also served in Europe in World War I: Charles, William, Heister, Howard, and Milton Folk. All returned home safely, except Milton. He was a private in the United States Army, Old Company, which was comprised of 185 soldiers, 103 from his hometown of Reading. During a spring offensive by the Germans, on March 6, 1918, Milton was severely wounded in the trenches in Alsace-Lorraine in southeast France. German forces raided his position at night, killing thirteen soldiers in the company. Milton was taken to a hospital in France, where he died on March 24. His body was temporarily interred in France, and a funeral was held back home for Milton once the family learned of his death. His remains were later returned to the States for burial in a family plot at Beckers St. Peters Church Cemetery on October 24, 1918. Milton was twenty-seven years of age, married, and left a seven year old son behind. Whether Milton realized it or not, he may actually have been on ancestral land in Alsace-Lorraine when he died.

Pappy never spoke with anger about the War or with hatred toward the enemy he had faced. I never heard him raise his voice or speak ill about anyone. One day when I was a child, as we were chatting, I mentioned somewhat casually that I hated some kid down the street for something he had said or done to me. I can still see the tears well up in Pappy’s eyes as he told me calmly but directly, Don’t ever say that you hate someone. Hate is such a strong word! You may not like or understand someone, but don’t ever hate them. Those words from Pappy have always stuck with me, and I have strived to live by them.

The Great Depression

I also remember the discussions Pappy and I had about the Great Depression of the early 1930s: the high unemployment, the long bread lines, the terrible hunger of so many people during those years. There were no unemployment benefits, no welfare program, no Social Security system to assist families at that time. As Pappy said, If you had bread on your table yesterday, there was no assurance that you would have bread on the table today or tomorrow. Pappy’s memories of the Depression were vivid, as he was a young husband and father who felt the responsibility to provide for his family. He told me how my grandmother would actually make pretzel soup and serve it as a meal. His experience had given him a great appreciation for the basic blessing of food on the family table.

As a child, I once ran to the dining room table near mealtime at my grandparents’ house exclaiming with exuberance – Boy! I’m starving! When are we going to eat? Pappy quickly corrected me, a little more sternly than usual – Terry, you may be hungry, but you are not starving! You don’t know what it means to be starving. You are so much more fortunate than so many people in this world who don’t have enough to eat. Lesson learned! I have never eaten a meal since without giving thanks, vocally or quietly, for the blessing of the food before me.

Old-Time Baseball

The topic that consumed most of our conversations was baseball. Pappy and I shared a love for baseball. He was a lifelong Philadelphia Phillies fan, who spoke in his younger days of driving down to Shibe Park (a much longer, more arduous trip in those days – no highways!) to watch his favorite team play. He talked to me of the early days of baseball from his generation growing up, and I developed an understanding and appreciation of the history of the game and its stars in the days of old. We spent many Saturday afternoons sitting in the living room, he in his easy chair and me on the sofa, watching the national broadcasts of The Game of the Week, … then repeating the process on Sunday afternoons when the Phillies games were broadcast. These were the only games that were televised in the early 1960s. When I happened to be in my grandparents’ home on a weeknight evening, the games were always on the radio, and the sound was cranked up enough to hear the game in every room on the first floor. My grandmother had no problem with this arrangement, as she was an ardent Phillies fan herself. Quizzically though, she would never watch a televised game, heading out to sit on the front porch instead, because she thought she would curse her team with bad luck if she watched. The reality is, in those days the Phillies could make their own bad luck. Pappy witnessed a stretch from 1931 – 1948 when the team never even got out of last place, but he still remained a loyal fan. His favorite team was the 1950 Whiz Kids Phillies, who won the pennant on the last day of the season in dramatic fashion, but lost to the Yankees in the World Series. I learned to love that team and its players as well, as I listened to Pappy speak about them with so much joy and enthusiasm.

I have often pondered the unfortunate reality that the Phillies, though established as a baseball franchise in 1883, took ninety-seven years to win their first World Series championship in 1980. Pappy cheered for the Phillies his entire life, died in 1978 at the age of eighty-one, and never saw his team win the ultimate prize. If only he had lived two years longer. When I celebrated that World Series Phillies championship in 1980, at just twenty-seven years of age, I felt I needed to include some extra cheers, just for Pappy, and Nanny, too.

The Falcon

I got my first car from Pappy when he no longer could drive it – a 1964 forest-green Ford Falcon. It was a great car for a young driver, built like a tank. The backstory is, when I graduated from college, I thought I would be keeping my 1971 metallic blue Ford Maverick, which my parents had purchased for me when I needed a vehicle to commute back and forth to college. But they informed me that the Maverick would now be passed on to my sister, as she was graduating from high school. Hmmm! I was about to be married and heading off to Seminary, so I needed a car and had very limited funds to purchase one. So I spoke to Pappy about the Falcon, which was just sitting on Moss Street, no longer in use. He wouldn’t sell it. I asked again a few weeks later. No deal! I was getting desperate as my wedding and move to our apartment in Bethlehem were drawing nearer. I made one last impassioned plea … and Pappy finally relented, saying, Okay, you can have it for $300. We set up a payment plan of $25 per month, which meant I would have it paid off in exactly a year. After three payments made on time, Pappy told me to forget about the rest. The car was officially mine!

That Falcon came with one unusual condition, however. To secure the car, I was to drive my grandparents to the Forest Hills Cemetery outside of Reading so that they could take a look at their gravesite. An odd request, I thought. Did they want to observe firsthand my driving skills? Or, more likely, in their waning years, did they just want to check out their burial site, anticipating that they would soon use it? We made the trip to the cemetery, and they were very appreciative that I escorted them.

Nanny would die less than a year later on Good Friday, April 15, 1976. She and Pappy shared fifty-two years of marriage together. Very sadly, her death occurred while Pappy was hospitalized, recuperating from major surgery. He was unable to participate in the planning or even attend his wife’s funeral. Embalming a body was only good for a maximum of three days back then, so the funeral had to take place within that time frame. Pictures were taken of Nanny’s body in the casket, to give Pappy some visual certainty of her death, and to reassure him that she had been well cared for. Imagine recovering from surgery and finding out that your beloved spouse had already died and was buried. Pappy grieved her loss terribly, and felt that he had let her down. More than anything else, he yearned to be with her again. They were reunited when Pappy died on October 3, 1978. I was serving the Schoenbrunn Moravian Church in Ohio, just six weeks into my first pastorate. Dad asked me to officiate at Pappy’s funeral. I was honored to do so for a man who had touched my life with his gentleness and wisdom. Pappy’s funeral was the first one I conducted in my ministry as a pastor.

"So with age is wisdom, and with length of days understanding (Job 12:12).

ELDA MARIE (ADAM) FOLK

Nanny Folk

(1906 – 1976)

Because I had two Nanny’s, I always used their last names to differentiate between them. There was Nanny Folk on my father’s side, and Nanny Middlecote on my mother’s side. Nanny Folk was born on April 2, 1906 in Maidencreek, Pennsylvania, just a few miles north of Reading. She was the third of ten children born to her parents, Edward C. and Katie Alice (Herb) Adam. She had five brothers: Herbert, Howard, Charles, Elmer, and Robert; and four sisters: Eva, Erma, Effie, and Elenora (Notice the fascination with names beginning with E for the daughters). I know that my grandmother and my great-aunt, Effie, were especially close. Effie was the only one who remembered my name at the huge Adam family reunions I attended as a child.

Nanny was baptized on April 29, 1906 at the St. Peter’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Richmond Township. She married my grandfather at the age of seventeen, with ten years difference between them. They had two children: my Uncle Willard and my father Clifford, three years apart. They wasted no time having a family, as Nanny was just shy of eighteen when my uncle was born, and not quite twenty-one when Dad was born.

A Baker’s Child

Nanny grew up in the small town of Molltown, Pennsylvania in a large stone duplex. Her father was a baker, operating his baker’s shop out of the back of the house. Imagine the wonderful aromas she grew up with each day! Undoubtedly, Nanny spent much of her early life learning the skills of the trade at her father’s side in the bakery. I can attest from years of personal experience that she learned well. I have fond memories of the enticing aromas that filled her home on Moss Street when she had one of her creations in the oven.

She especially cranked up the oven during the Christmas season, baking thousands of cookies (no exaggeration!), along with other delicacies for the family to eat. She would carefully load the cookies into large pickle jars (Yes, the pickles and juice had already been removed and their odor neutralized), and stack the jars on the steps leading up to the attic. I could not imagine how one family could consume so many cookies in just a few weeks celebrating the season, but by early January they always disappeared. A handful of freshly baked cookies dunked into a cup of hot tea or a glass of chocolate milk was a tasty treat indeed. Nanny worked outside of the home for many years, helping to make ends meet during the Depression and the lean years that followed. It seemed quite appropriate when she landed a job at Maiers Bakery in Reading as a cake baker and decorator. I would say she was eminently qualified for the position. Not many women worked full-time in those days, but Nanny would be employed at Maiers for thirty-two years until her retirement.

Crab Cakes to Die For

One of Nanny’s specialties from the kitchen was her crab cakes. They were to die for! Crab meat was expensive, so they weren’t on the menu too often. But occasionally my Uncle Willard would splurge on some crab meat (I suspect he himself had a hankering for them, too), and Nanny would announce to the family that she would be preparing crab cakes. She would make five or six dozen at a time. It would be first-come, first-serve, so there was no time for dilly-dallying. I could not always be there quickly enough, especially after we moved outside of the city when I was fourteen. I always feared that I would miss out on these special creations, so I would beg Nanny to set a couple of crab cakes aside for me until I could get there to partake. She always did just that, with express orders to everyone that Those crab cakes are for Terry! Stay away from them! I still enjoy crab cakes and often order them in a fine seafood restaurant, but I have never tasted any that have approached the exquisite flavor of Nanny Folk’s crab cakes.

Nanny enjoyed playing bingo, and participated in playing many games which were held in large smoke-filled halls at churches and fire departments. Occasionally she would allow me to tag along, and to play a card or two. She, however, would masterfully play numerous cards at a time, which required intense concentration. My cousin, Betty, said she witnessed Nanny playing as many as thirty cards simultaneously. I never bothered her with a question or a comment while the numbers were being called out. Whenever Nanny won, there was a strong possibility that I might be rewarded with a small percentage of the take.

The Soaps

Nanny enjoyed taking bus excursions to various places, usually day trips but also longer trips from time to time. I remember that my grandfather never went along; he always stayed home. I wondered why they didn’t go together. When I asked about it, I learned the reason. Nanny was a faithful watcher of daytime soap operas, following the story-lines of a half-dozen different shows at a time. To keep up to speed, as there was no technology in those days to record television programs, she enlisted the assistance of my grandfather. On the day of the trip, she would give explicit, hand-written orders for him to watch each show on the appropriate channels at the specific times. He was to take detailed notes on the plot lines, and report back to her when she returned home. I was quite impressed that Pappy would dutifully carry out this task for his wife without complaint. How many husbands would fulfil such a request so willingly? It was a clear sign to me of the level of love and devotion that was so integral to their marriage.

I remember that Nanny was involved in a serious accident on one of those bus trips. The bus turned over in the incident, and a few people were killed and others seriously injured. Nanny spent some time in the hospital with some injuries that were not life-threatening. She recovered completely.

In their later years, Nanny and Pappy each developed significant health issues. It seemed as if they took turns having medical procedures, surgeries, and hospitalizations. I remember my father lamenting that in the last five years of their lives, one or the other of his parents was hospitalized over sixty times. On one occasion when his mother was particularly ill, I recall watching my father in the driveway from the kitchen window, and he suddenly just leaned over the hood of the car and wept profusely. It was the only time I ever saw my father cry. Dad loved his parents and checked in on them almost every day. He provided transportation for them to and from doctor’s appointments, picked up prescriptions, purchased groceries, did chores around the house … whatever needed to be done, Dad was there. He was a loyal son.

"Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust

also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms … I am

going there to prepare a place for you (John 14: 1-2)."

HELEN MAE MIDDLECOTE

Nanny Middlecote

(1904 – 1995)

My grandmother on my mother’s side, Helen Middlecote, was born on March 25, 1904 in Gibralter, Pennsylvania. As she often related, there was a discrepancy regarding her birth date; she may have actually been born on a date about a month earlier. She joked that celebrating her birthday on the March date made her feel as if she was much younger. Nanny was baptized on September 18, 1904, either at home or at the St. John’s Lutheran Church in Gibralter. It appears that, as a young woman, Nanny left school to find work, securing jobs in hosiery mills that manufactured women’s clothing. At the age of sixteen, she worked for the J.G. Leinbech Company, and later was employed by Blue Swan Mills in the 1950s. In my early years, I remember that she worked as a visiting nurse until her retirement.

John Falk

At some point in the early 1930s, Nanny married a man by the name of John P. Falk. Soon thereafter she became pregnant with my mother, who would be her only child. In 1932 John left his marriage and his child soon to be born for a new life in Michigan. He was rarely, if ever, heard from again. These events occurred often in the days of the Depression, when many men lost their jobs and had difficulty finding work. It was a sad reality that a number of them left their homes and relationships behind in those days, fearing they could not provide for their families, or simply choosing not to fulfil their responsibilities as husbands and fathers. The only remembrance my mother had of her father was a picture of him standing next to his car somewhere in Michigan. My mother was deprived of a father, and as she shared with me, her mother would not share any information with her about her father. His name was never mentioned in the household as she was growing up. Of course, my sister and I were deprived of our natural grandfather as well. His leaving necessitated that my grandmother, now the sole source of support for her new family, had to enter the work force, with her grandparents assuming the leading role in raising my mother.

On July 2, 1951, my grandmother married Leonard Middlecote, who had been born in England and emigrated to the United States. He owned a duplex in the small community of Beckersville, about ten miles south of Reading. His family, comprised of a daughter, son-in-law, and grandson, lived in one side of the duplex, and he and my grandmother resided in the other. There was a small bungalow on the property, two double garages, and a dilapidated chicken coup that was no longer in use by the time I entered the picture. They eventually moved out of the larger duplex into the smaller, more manageable bungalow, where my memories are clearer.

A Country Boy

As a child, I looked forward to the occasional weekend visits to my grandparents in the country. There was a rapid-flowing, babbling brook that ran along the boundary of the property just past the chicken coup. I spent many hours roaming up and down the creek (or crick, as we Pennsylvania Germans pronounce it), sometimes just sitting on the small bridge that crossed over it, watching the water pass under me. I watched the tadpoles swimming and the dragonflies lighting on the surface, and heard the frogs kerplunking into the water. Occasionally I was startled by a snake slithering by; I was always on the lookout for them. It was a quiet and peaceful rural setting, an ear and eye-opening experience for me, quite a contrast to the cacophony of noises and frantic pace that mark everyday life in the city.

As a young boy, I was curious for quite some time about what life was like over the hill on the other side of the creek, but a bit fearful about embarking on that adventure. Finally one day, without my grandparents’ permission, I gathered enough courage to cross over the bridge and climb the hill to get a view. When I reached the crest, the panorama before me was spectacular! There was nothing but green rolling hills in every direction, stretching for miles and miles, as far as my eye could see, with no buildings or wires or telephone poles in sight. Nanny and Pop Pop never knew that I took that hike, but it was certainly worth it.

"I lift up my eyes to the hills – where does my help

come from? My help comes from the Lord, the

Maker of heaven and earth (Psalm 121: 1-2)."

There was an apple tree on the property that never seemed to produce any fruit worth eating, but I found a good use for any that dropped to the ground. I honed my batting swing hitting green apples over the creek. That was only a problem if I happened to hit a mushy apple, splattering myself with rotten apple juice … or if I disturbed the yellow jackets who were just as interested in those apples as I was, which usually ended the game.

A highlight of those weekends were the card games we would often play in the evening. Nanny and Pop Pop taught me a Pennsylvania German game called Hoss and Pfeffer, in which the jacks in the deck, called the right and left bars, are the strongest cards in the game, ranking higher than the designated trump suit. It was a fascinating game, and I really enjoyed playing it. I would beg them to get out the cards and set up the kitchen table for a game. I quickly learned such vital card-playing skills as bidding my hand and counting trump, and playing my cards as efficiently as possible. I also began to realize that I had a competitive nature and always played to win, even at a young age.

Nanny Middlecote was not known for her cooking skills, as were my two aforementioned grandmothers, but I was thrilled when she made one of my favorite treats – rice pudding. She seasoned it with cinnamon and a liberal dose of raisins, with a consistency that was a bit on the runny side – just the way I liked it. It was delicious, worthy of an extra visit or two to her house whenever she whipped up a batch.

After Grandmom and Grandpop died, Nanny and Pop Pop moved back into the city into the family homestead on Birch Street. She reaffirmed her faith and united with the Reading Moravian congregation on January 30, 1972. We would often sit together for worship in my college years.

A Hot Foot

One feature of their home I vividly recall was the grate that was located on the floor smack-dab in the middle of the living room. You did not want to step on it in your stocking or bare feet or you would get a hot foot. The reason was that my grandmother insisted on maintaining the old coal furnace in the cellar, long after virtually everyone had switched to oil heat. A couple of times a day in the cold weather months, the coal would have to be shoveled into the fire and stoked, to keep the house warm. The heat would rise through the grate and then permeate into the rest of the house. That grate was scorching hot!

When my grandmother’s health began to fail, even as my father was struggling with cancer, Mom carried out her care-giving efforts on both fronts lovingly and efficiently. She was tireless and faithful in her efforts. After Dad passed away in 1993, Mom made the short block and a half walk to my grandmother’s home every day, tending to all her needs. I visited whenever I was in town, as by this time I was serving the Graceham Moravian Church in Maryland. Nanny died on February 25, 1995, one month shy of her ninety-first birthday, and only seventeen months after Dad’s death. I assisted with her funeral at the Whelan-Fleishmann Funeral Home in Reading. As far as I know, her life achieved more longevity than anyone before her in the Hoffman family.

LEONARD MIDDLECOTE

Pop Pop

(1887 – 1971)

My step-grandfather, Leonard Middlecote, was born in England on July 23, 1887. He emigrated to the United States as a young man. He never spoke much of his life in England. He had a daughter, June, from a previous marriage, and a grandson, Mark, a few years older than me. I know nothing about his youth, his career, or the date of his marriage to my grandmother.

Pop Pop enjoyed crossword puzzles and was quite the wizard in solving them. This was a daily activity for him, as there was always a crossword in the newspaper. He would sit in his chair working on one, while I sat on the floor watching television. To engage me, he would seek my assistance for some of the words he was seeking, although as a young child, it was a rare occasion that I could come up with a correct word that he needed. Nevertheless, the benefit to me was that my vocabulary increased each time we engaged in this exercise.

Cheating at Crazy Eights

Pop Pop and I spent hours playing cards. Our primary game was Crazy Eights, and we played it with enthusiasm and competitiveness. At one point, I had an astounding stretch of success, winning almost every hand. This perplexed Pop Pop to no end. He couldn’t figure out how this little whippersnapper was beating him so consistently and decisively. I didn’t want to share the secret to my success right away; I was enjoying it, and decided to let it continue for a few more