Manna
Sep 19, 2009 sojourn
The last 3-4 weeks are a blur. Lots of good things happening, but all in all there’s just too much going on. Seems I need a data base of late just to manage the to do lists.
This morning before heading out the ball fields to watch my daughter’s soccer game, I got caught up in a thought that has been gnawing at me for some time, literally years. What ever became of the compassionate man who nurtured me through one of the most turbulent seasons of my life through my senior year and just after graduating high school back in 19…
He had a farm in the middle of the little town of Circleville, NY that served as his haven from the city on weekends. I can still smell the fresh wheat grains baking into loaves as a group of us would knock on the screen door and yell for Don. He’d promptly greet us with “Come in, hope you’re hungry, there’s lots of work to be done.” From cutting vegetables for the turkey soup, chopping wood, raking leaves or cleaning out the several fireplaces in preparation for the evening supper, then a time of stories and fellowship.
The old farm house, affectionately named “Manna” had been restored, but still had all the rough qualities of life in the late 1800’s. Though there was electricity in the house, it was used sparingly for cooking and utilities. A fireplace in every room, creaky oak stairways and 10×10“ beams on display that provided structural integrity for the house as well as serving as a means of hanging herbs, pots and pans, etc. The owner, an artist among many other things, had painted the four seasons on each of the living room walls, meticulous scenes of colonial life laced with his own expressions of love for the environment… mind you, this was LONG before GREEN was on everyone’s mind.
I recall the year he decided to build a chapel in the barn so we could hold Christmas Eve service by candlelight. We worked hard cutting and hauling huge timber beams, and gutting the old structure. The vision complete, we celebrated and sang Christmas songs and ate and drank. There was joy and there were tears.
There were times when I’d go there alone, knowing it was too early for him to be there on a Friday afternoon, and just sit outside and wait or walk down to the barn or through the fields and feel free of the world. During a particularly tough season not long before I left NY for FL in 19…, I spent quite few late November days venting my heart break and emotions among the birds and deer, realizing I needed drastic change in my life. I wandered away from the house out toward the gravel access road leading back to civilization and came across a very large oblong plastic container. It had writing on it, and while I can’t recall the exact words, it was my friend’s version of a time capsule. I didn’t dare turn it over to see what was inside, some things are deeply personal and sacred, even back then I knew that. But it read something like, “…how we care for the earth and its inhabitants is how we care for our own being.”
I sat down and began to pray, not necessarily in a religious manner, but as a means of communion with the moment, the earth and God. It was like all the time in the past few years at Manna was in preparation for this moment. The kindness and compassion our friend showed myself and the buddies I’d go there with was also was intuitively blended with the challenge of living with integrity, of knowing the importance of thinking through decisions — of fairness and justice.
To this day, I have no idea how we found Manna or its owner, Donald Bailey Tirrell. The house was well of the beaten path, yet smack dab in the middle of all the back roads we’d partied on during those high school summers in the foothills of the NY Catskills. Though I’d searched previously for Don and Manna, today I found the news I’d hoped I wouldn’t. Don passed away November 1, 2008, less than a year ago, on All Saints Day. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that Don and Manna saved my life. But because I’d stubbornly disavowed myself from my family, Don played a big part in helping me cross the raging river to manhood.
Could be what got me thinking about Don, Manna and Circleville this morning is that fall is almost upon us. And how much I loved autumn in NY, the crisp transition from summer always gave me a sense that I could start over, no matter what the circumstances. I’m totally heartbroken that I didn’t press the issue. That I didn’t listen to the gnawing gut feeling to keep digging until I found Don Tirrell. To at least send a card, or maybe call to let him know how loved he was by the troupe of misfits he welcomed into his home and his life. Now I can only hope and pray that he knew of the deep impact on my life and the vivid memories he so blessed me with.
Tags: Don Tirrell, Manna
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