WHO WILL YOU BE IN THE ASYLUM? [W, 7-30-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Pretending of An Old Man—WHO WILL YOU BE IN THE ASYLUM? [W, 7-30-25]

 

English poet John Clare spent the last 23 years of his life in an insane asylum, a second stint since he had earlier escaped from another asylum. During those final asylum years, he thought he was Lord Byron or Robert Burns, and, according to Garrison Keillor’s “Writers’ Almanack,” did some of his best work.

Well, yes, if I could think I’m Lord Byron or Robert Burns, or even Garrison Keillor, I could probably write better, too. I don’t think I’d do well in an asylum, though, or even Minneapolis.

If you were committed to an asylum, who would you want as your asylum doppelganger? Apparently, you can do such much better work if you’re someone else.

When I was young, I did some pretending that I was someone else, especially when heaving basketballs at the netless, tilting, rusty iron hoop on the side of the barn. It never occurred to me that it was at least a bit unusual for a Southern Indiana white boy in the 1940-50s to pretend he was Meadowlark Lemon.

I pretended that I was Gil Hodges when I played baseball with Uncle Johnny in our orchard field. That made more sense. Gil and I both played first base, and he lived only a dozen miles from me before he went to play in Brooklyn.

And we were both polite young men. His real name was Hodge, but the secretary in the Dodgers’ office mistakenly added an “s” to his name on his first contract, and he didn’t want to embarrass her by pointing out the mistake. It was more polite to go by a different name the rest of his life.

I wonder if she ever knew about that? And, if so, did she then pretend to be some other secretary?

When I was in high school, I decided I to pretend I was someone who was interesting. I became Johney. The different spelling was so no one would think that I was my father or uncle or cousin or nephew, all of them John or Johnny.

I was really pretending to be Johnny Dark, a comic book action hero. It didn’t work. My friends kept me calling me John. As one said, “You’re too square to be a Johnny.” So much for my life of pretending.

If you want to be taken seriously as a pretender, to be The Great Pretender, you have to be persistent. [1] Like Bob...

When we lived in Mason City, IA, our daughter and her family had a neighbor, Bob, who claimed he was retired as “The # 2 man in the FBI.” He smoked a bent-stem pipe to prove it, as he leaned over his wire fence to tell anyone who passed by about his “real” identity.

It was a total fabrication. He had been a minor functionary for a railroad. But he told that to so many people that the FBI folks came around and told him to stop pretending. He did not, and in his obit, he was identified as the # 2 man in the FBI. That’s great pretending.

Well, back to the earlier question: If you were committed to an asylum—or even to your back yard, as Bob was--who would you want as your asylum doppelganger?

I think I can still hit a hook shot. They’ll probably let me have a nerf ball and a trash can at Peaceful Acres. I think I’ll still be Meadowlark Lemon.

John Robert McFarland

1] A great song, written by Buck Ram, and recorded by The Platters in 1959.]

 

FORGET FIRST; IT’S BETTER THAN FORGIVING [SUN, 7-27-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Memories of An Old Preacher—FORGET FIRST; IT’S BETTER THAN FORGIVING [SUN, 7-27-25]

 

[This column is just a personal reminiscence, and a confession of sin, and twice my usual 500-word length, so read only if you have extra time on your hands.]

I wrote last time about my best friend from my time at Garrett Theological Seminary, at Northwestern University. I remember Walt Wagener so well. But when I saw the death listing for Gene Fields [not his real name] in the Garrett alum magazine, I didn’t remember him at all. The name seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t remember… then I read his obit. Oh, yes, Gene was my main adversary/competitor in seminary… and I had totally forgotten about him.

I was so proud. That’s progress, to forget someone you didn’t get along with. I had done the ultimate in forgiving, not just forgiven but forgotten. So I began to review all the reasons we had been competitors… That’s the wrong thing to do.

When I was at the height of my career years, a young woman preacher called and asked to see me. She said, “They say if you want to talk theology, you’re the one to go to.” I was pleased; apparently, I had a rep as a theologian.

We didn’t get to theology right away, though. A little small talk, and then she began to cry. “Why is it that you men preachers are so competitive?”

That’s when we got to theology: original sin. That competitive nature that wants the best for one’s own regardless of what happens to others. Even among preachers. And seminary students.

At Garrett, there were four of us in my class from the same state who were considered the ones to watch for success. I didn’t really feel competitive with the others, but they felt they had to compete with me. We were equal but I was more equal. I wore the bishop’s mantle. [1] I was the one to beat if you wanted to be the best.

I wasn’t really the one to beat, because I wasn’t better. I was just different. That, however, apparently made me look like the one to beat. If there is competition in your nature, you need someone to beat.

Back then, 99% of Protestant seminary students were 22-year-old white males. [About one % of seminary students are 22-year-old while males now.] Gene and Bill and Don were “normal.” They had graduated from small religious colleges. They lived in student apartments and went to school fulltime while their wives supported them—a very common arrangement in those days for guys in any kind of graduate professional education. They ate lunch in the cafeteria. They had church jobs, but only on Sundays, mostly youth work.

I stood out, and everybody knew who I was, because I was different. For a lot of reasons.

I already had a reputation as a civil right advocate. I had started at Perkins School of Theology, at SMU, and Helen and I had been thrown out of town [not the seminary] because we integrated the community center we directed.

I was the first transfer student at Garrett to receive a scholarship. They did not give scholarships to transfers to avoid being accused of stealing students from other seminaries. They made an exception for me because of why I had lost my job and thus could not continue at Perkins.

I pastored a full-time, two-point charge [two churches] while having two children and commuting 65 miles each way every day. No other student had a load like that.

I had graduated from the major state university, “the Godless state university,” in our conference, rather than from a small denominational college.

I commuted and took a sack lunch rather than eat in the cafeteria. That was purely for financial reasons, but the lunches Helen packed for me were far better than eating in the cafeteria. [2] And I got to eat with the elite.

The other brown bag guys were PhD students. There were just five of us, and I was the only one on his first degree. Tom Tredway became president of Augustana College. Ron Goetz became a religion professor at Elmhurst. Bill White became chaplain and religion professor at Ill Wesleyan. James Cone became the famous professor of black power at Union Seminary in New York City. And me. I was considered to be one of that elite group just because I ate with them.

I was a firebrand who took on the establishment. Sometimes the church establishment over pensions or organization. Often the cultural establishment over racism.

I was accused of being the favorite of our bishop because he protected me when I caused problems. But he protected me only because most of the problems I caused were of the “good trouble” variety that John Lewis espoused.

Even though I was young and supposed to keep my mouth shut and let the older and wiser voices prevail, I was a major voice in our conference for racial justice. I got into trouble with lay folks and preachers and even District Superintendents. Some were just gentle racists, advocating always for “more time,” hoping that the problem would solve itself. Others were downright real racists, claiming that black folk “should know their place and stay in it.” [3] They didn’t want to put up with some wiseacre young guy who was too loud and too sure of himself.

Bishop Richard Raines would call me in, tell me to be careful, and then protect me even when I was not careful. That gave me a special status. I wasn’t really Raines’ favorite. Anyone could get the bishop’s favor; you just had to get into “good trouble.” I looked like the favorite, though, because I was the one who wasn’t careful.

There were others, of course, who shared my concern for racial justice. In retrospect, I’m sure that Gene and Bill and Don were among them. But others were more careful about expressing it. Because I was loud, and too sure of myself, I was noticeable, and thus the object of competition.

Gene never gave up competing. Not with me. I hope he forgot about me, as I did him. But it was obvious that he had written his own obit. It was full of accolades and awards that no one else would even know about or care about. Even in death, he wanted everyone to know that he was the best, that he had won the competition. It’s too bad. He really did have a good and useful career. I don’t think he was ever satisfied with it, though.

The problem for me is now that I have been reminded of Gene, I’m going back to competing with him, rehearsing all the ways that he and the others tried to show they were better than I, and all the defenses I used to try to show that they were not. Including all the stuff I have written above.

Sometimes, forgetting is even better than forgiving.

John Robert McFarland

1] The Bishop’s Mantle is by Agnes Sleigh Turnbull.

2] I would not say that the cafeteria food was bad, but one day during lunch someone yelled at Mrs. Rice, the cafeteria director, “Hey, Mrs. Rice, the garbage man is here.” “Good,” returned a female voice, “tell him to leave three bags.”

3] I had a famous confrontation with the local high school principal where I pastored because he would not let the lone black boy in our church go to school there, but insisted he would have to go the city, 20 miles away, to a black high school, even though there was no transportation available.

 

 

 

 

HE BLOOMED WHERE HE WAS PLANTED: WALT WAGENER, 7/7/36-7/17/25 [R. 7/24/25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Hopeful Memories of An Old Man--HE BLOOMED WHERE HE WAS PLANTED: WALT WAGENER, 7/7/36-7/17/25 [R. 7/24/25]

 

Walt was a good listener. One of the people to whom he listened often was Wolfgang Roth, Old Testament professor at Garrett Theological Seminary. Wolfgang pointed out a place in the Talmud where we are reminded that on the day of judgment, we shall be called to account for every thing of beauty in this world that we failed to appreciate.

Walt loved to quote that. More importantly, he lived it. Walt was always the best example I knew of the maxim, “Bloom where you’re planted.”

Walt and I met at Garrett, when he still went by Wally. Strangely, it was after he had graduated, technically, before we met. I did not know many other students at Garrett, only the other daily commuters with whom I shared brown bag lunch time. Walt was a year ahead of me, and the essential home boy. He lived in the married student apartments just a couple of blocks away and went home for lunch. We had no reason to meet.

Yet, I was the only roommate he ever had. For college, at U of WI in Milwaukee, he lived at home and played tight end on the football team. Then he married, so lived in the seminary apartments, not the dorms…

…until the summer after he graduated. He still had one course to take to complete his degree. He was already appointed to be the Methodist campus minister at Whitewater State U. It was too far for a daily commute, so for three weeks, he had to live in the dorm at Garrett, going home only on the weekends.

It was the same three weeks that I could go home only on the weekends because I was taking two semester-length courses crammed into one summer session. Walt and I were assigned to room together just because we were the leftovers.

I know we must have gone to classes and studied, but it seems now that we spent the entire time just sitting on our beds and talking. We found that we shared in commitment to baseball and social justice. It was one of those “I’ve known and liked this guy forever” relationships. Thus it remained forever. We usually lived too far away geographically to continue our eternal conversation regularly. Walt was in WI or NE, I in IN or IL. But we talked on the phone, visited in each other’s homes, met in Chicago to go to baseball games.

That was one of the things we always talked about—baseball. Walt was a true Milwaukee baseball fan, the Braves when they came from Boston, then the Brewers after the Braves moved to Atlanta. But he always honored my love of the Cincinnati Reds and would suggest that our Chicago forays include games when the Reds were in town. He even had a photo made of the Reds’ ballpark jumbotron with a sign welcoming me to the stadium.

Walt’s commitments were few—family, friends, baseball, church, social justice. Through the years he lived out his commitments as a campus minister, a parish pastor, a seminary admissions director, and a hospital chaplain. Wherever those commitments took him, he lived in that moment, bloomed where he was planted.

Whenever we could, we got together on July 7 to celebrate his birthday. He was always seven months older than I. These last few years we celebrated first through the telephone, and when that became too much, through email from me that his wife, Judy, read to him, and email replies from him that he dictated to her. Walt died less than two weeks after that most recent celebration.

I rejoice for all the years he graced the earth with his gentle and caring presence, and I rejoice that he now graces that “great cloud of witnesses” with that same presence.

“For all the saints, who from their labors rest…”

John Robert McFarland

The photo is from Jan. 17, 2013, when Walt was speaking at the MLK Day celebration at Mitchell Community College, in Statesville, NC, telling about marching with MLK in Chicago to end school segregation.

 

BOB HAMMEL, 10/6/36-7/19/25, RIP [M, 7-21-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Memories of an Old Man—BOB HAMMEL, 10/6/36-7/19/25, RIP [M, 7-21-25]

 

The first thing we think of at the name of Bob Hammel is “writer.” Particularly sports writer. That’s how most of us first came to know him. That’s the main reason for all those awards, accolades that would make the rest of us be full of ourselves. In the sports world, those in the know said that he was the equal of Jim Murray of The Los Angelos Times, or Frank Deford, of Sports Illustrated. Most folks didn’t know it though, because Bob wrote for the Bloomington Herald-Times. Acclaim never changed Bob, though. He was always that good-hearted Hoosier boy from Huntington. 

As Helen and I got better acquainted personally with Bob and Julie, we learned that the writing was enabled by that phenomenal memory. He said he retired when he did because he could not remember things like who was the second highest scorer in some 1924 junior varsity game between two schools that didn’t even exist anymore.

No one ever questioned the accuracy of Bob’s facts or the integrity of his writing.

His writing was enabled by his family, both the Huntington family of his youth, and the family he and Julie created over 67 years of marriage. They not only encouraged him and taught him about love but often provided unintentional fodder for his articles and columns.

His writing was also enabled by his faith, acted out in his church commitment and in his life of Jesus values. Bob felt a spiritual dimension in a typewriter keyboard. He once told me that he often felt like a concert pianist as he typed, with the musical notes of words flowing from his fingers, the words selecting and correctly spelling themselves as they came from his fingertips.

And his writing was enabled by his vast array of friends.

So, as one of those friends, I want to concentrate not so much on Bob, the writer, but Bob the friend.

Bob and I missed each other as IU students by only a year. He was only four months older than I, but he graduated high school when he was just sixteen, a year ahead of me. Had I been a year older, we might even have been roommates, for we both lived in the leftover WWII BOQ that served as a dorm for The Residence Scholarship Plan, for poor kids who were motivated but didn’t have the money for college.

We sometimes talked of how much we missed by not meeting then. Instead, forty years later, Methodist Bishop Leroy Hodapp introduced us. IU basketball coach Bob Knight said that Bishop Hodapp was his pastor, and that Bob Hammel was his best friend, most of the time, so the bishop thought Hammel and I should meet. When we met, we did our best to make up for lost time.

Bob was loyal to his friends. Sometimes he was criticized for that, as with his most famous friendship, with Bob Knight. Make no mistake, he recognized the faults of his friends. As a reporter, he always told the truth. But he didn’t let the faults of a friend affect the friendship.

Through the years, when Bob and Julie found out Helen and I were to be in town, they would host us in their home and at one or another of their many favorite restaurants. When we moved back to Bloomington, they welcomed us with tickets to a Willie Nelson concert at the IU Auditorium, and hosted us often for lunch or supper. After they could no longer drive and had to move to assisted living, Bob and I met weekly for coffee, until a bad hip hampered my driving and prevented my walking, and he had a long stint in hospital and rehab and then entered hospice care.

Perhaps I can sum up Bob, my friend, with this story: One day about 30 years ago, Bob and I went to lunch and then to IU basketball practice. Coach Knight was his usual famously profane self. Afterward, I said to Bob, “I wish he would be more creative. He just uses the same foul words over and over. Doesn’t even mix up the order.” Bob replied, with heart-felt Presbyterian gentleness, “Oh, I just wish he wouldn’t use those words at all.”

I thought, “Oh, wait. The preacher wants the coach to cuss creatively, and the sports writer wants him not to cuss at all. Isn’t that backwards?”

Not exactly. That was Bob Hammel.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

 

 

MY ESSENCE IS PERFECTION [F, 7-18-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Essence of An Old Man—MY ESSENCE IS PERFECTION [F, 7-18-25]

 

I am re-reading Healthy Aging, by Andrew Weil, MD. In Chapter 17, he talks about “unchanging essence.” [1]

He notes that all of us change as we age. Obviously, our bodies change, but so do our brains and our emotions. We learn new information, get new insights. We are not exactly the same persons today that we were yesterday.

There is, however, an “unchanging essence,” that which has always been and will always be the core of who we are. He gives a whole page of questions to help us determine what that essence is, for we shall age better if we know that personal essence.

It doesn’t take me a whole page to know my essential identity. I am still that little boy who always wanted to be perfect.

I didn’t want to be perfect for bad reasons, so that I could lord my perfection over others. I wanted perfection so that there would be no reason for anyone to criticize me or punish me. Especially, I did not want to have to criticize or punish myself. I wanted to be at-one-ment with God and with myself. I did not want to suffer, either the criticisms of others or the doubts and guilts of myself.

Yes, I wanted everyone to like me, but that is sort of a sub-category of perfection. When I was young, I did not know how hard it is for people to like you when you are perfect.

I learned early that perfection is not possible, but if perfection is your essence, you have to find excuses for your imperfection, because you are still going to try to be true to your essence, still try to be perfect, even when you know you can’t be.

[That’s how essence is: it keeps on trying even when it doesn’t work, even when it knows it doesn’t work.]

There are three excuses we use for not being perfect.

One excuse for imperfection is denial, but that’s never been helpful to me. I can’t claim to be perfect where there is so much evidence to the contrary, especially when there are so many folks willing to point out that evidence.

Another excuse for imperfection is the actions of others. My mother often said, “Look what you made me do!” It’s hard to be perfect when you are causing imperfections even in others.

A third excuse is circumstances. The weather did it. Or society. Or a dog tripped me, or ate it.

Well, there may be more than three excuses. So, you expected me to know them all? I’m not perfect, you know… [Oh, that’s the fourth one—blame others for their expectations.]

John Robert McFarland

1] Weil’s book was pretty good when it was published 20 years ago. He was a pioneer in integrative medicine. I don’t recommend it now, though. He’s not a particularly good writer, and he puts in too much extraneous stuff. Other writers are more up-to-date. However, if you like the food and cooking aspects of health, he’s very much into that.

“The toughest thing about success is that you’ve got to keep on being a success.” Irving Berlin [Writer’s Almanac]

 

I’M WORRIED ABOUT YOU; PLEASE GO AWAY

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—I’M WORRIED ABOUT YOU; PLEASE GO AWAY [T, 7-15-25]

 

I recently had a very nice encounter with a man I’ll call Rick. Over ten years, we have occasionally met as we walked the narrow sidewalks of our pleasant neighborhood. Now that Heather has moved, we are the only early morning walkers.

He said, “I’ve been worried about you. I haven’t seen you for so long. I asked around about you, but…”

Asking around in our neighborhood, about anything, will usually result in, “But…”

We are good neighbors in our ‘hood. We greet one another. But if we know another’s name, it is only the first name.

I think the dogs are responsible for that. I know the names of all the dogs in the neighborhood, but they think they are celebrities, and use only one name, like Waggs or Blue, so we humans have begun to do the same, like Madonna or Lizzo. [Yes, I know who Lizzo is.]

I explained to Rick that I had not walked for several months because of my bad hip, but that I was able to walk now because of physical therapy.

Rick did what we all do in a casual conversation. He heard something that caught his attention and went with that, rather than remembering that he was supposed to be worrying about me, since he had not seen me for so long.

“My mother had to have physical therapy. She had a stroke at Thanksgiving time,” he said. He went on to describe his mother’s symptoms before and after PT. “Not surprising that she’s slow to recover,” he said, “because she’s almost 89.”

Almost 89? Guess who else is almost 89! [I thought that; didn’t say it out loud.]

I was dumbstruck. Rick is an old guy. Obviously retired. Yes, he walks better than I do. He’s faster, long loping stride. But I thought that he and I were the same age. No, his mother and I are the same age! That means he must be the same age as my children.

So now I have done it, the same as Rick, the same as we are all wont to do until we learn to listen--hearing that thing that caught my attention and took me away from the main point.

No, the main point is not that I misread his age, that I’m old enough to be his father. No, the main point is that he was worried about me. That is what I need to hear, not that I’m once again flummoxed by how old I am.

Here’s the point: It’s nice to have folks glad you’re present. And it’s nice when they notice your absence and worry about you.

I think a lot of the trouble makers in the world, nobody noticed them when they were absent, so they had to act out their frustrations in order to get attention, to get noticed. Those folks, we need to say to them, “I noticed your absence. I worried about you.”

Now, though, before we can say it, those folks will need to be absent, go away. We probably have the same folks in mind.

John Robert McFarland

My older sister used to work for a travel agency. Their business slogan was, “Please Go Away.” For cruises, it was “Please Go Aweigh.”

 

 

STARTING AT ONE [SAT, 7-12-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—STARTING AT ONE [SAT, 7-12-25]

 

Daughter Katie told us about a little child who called Grandpa to wish him a happy birthday. “How old are you?” she asked. “62,” Grandpa replied. There was a long pause, and then she said, “Did you start at one?”

I recently wrote [6-20-25] about the importance of counting down. Counting up is important, too.  

When I was in grade school, at Lucretia Mott PS # 3, in Indianapolis, we received a weekly “newspaper.” It was about four pages, and often had illustrated articles about what life would be like in the future, especially the 21^st century. The accompanying drawings would show flying automobiles, and people hopping from car to school in space suits, and kids eating a school lunch that was just a little tablet.

I thought it would be neat to experience that, at least a car that could fly, and I asked my mother if she thought I would live to see the 21^st century. After all, I would be 63 when that century arrived, an almost impossible age to comprehend, even though I was starting the counting up at a bit higher than one. Mother allowed as how it was possible that I would see the 21^st century. She was right, even though it took a lot more counting up.

Old friend and former student, Dennis Heller, telephoned recently. He congratulated us on our 66^th wedding anniversary. Then, without meaning to, I think, he gave us a goal. He told us of a couple that has been married 81 years! That’s a lot of counting up! [1]

I have now counted up 25 years into this 21^st century, this century which once seemed so far away. A lot of stuff in those pictures in my grade school paper has happened. I’m disappointed about the flying cars, though.

We could really use flying cars. The roads are clogged. No one can get anywhere.

We used to have trains and buses. What happened to them? Wouldn’t it be better if we had good public transportation? Our idea of public transportation is a Uber, just another car to clog the roads and foul the air.

Yes, but we don’t have public transportation. Or flying cars. We have to live in the reality of our own time. There are no time machines. We get no choice about when we shall live. Only about how…

We all start at one, and count up…

John Robert McFarland

1] They are each 99.