Category Archives: Life

Some thoughts on Psalm 40

May 31, 2023Faith, Family History, Life, Salvation Message, UncategorizedFaithGary Stuber

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Been on a spiritual journey. Want to share some of my thoughts on my favorite Psalm 40. A psalm of David I identify with. A look at some versus, not necessarily in verse order.

Seeing is believing. Or is it hearing?

“And he hath put a new song in my mouth, even praise unto our God: many shall see it, and fear, and shall trust in the LORD.” Psalm 40:3

Paul says in Romans 10:17 “So then faith cometh by hearing, and hearing by the word of God.” And the old expresssion says ‘Seeing is Believing.’ And yet the children of the children of those led out of Egypt had such little faith in both what they saw and heard that by the fourth generation they were fallen away from God. So is it hearing or seeing? Besides: don’t believe everything you see. Even salt looks like sugar.

Curious. You would think many would HEAR the song or praise. But King David said many would “see it.” I pondered on this a lot. And after I read one of Paul’s accounts, I think I understand David’s words better now.

I’m sure people do hear praise and especially in song. In fact God says “So then faith cometh by hearing, and hearing by the word of God.” (Romans 10:17). So we expect salvation from hearing. So David threw me for a loop with his, “many shall see it and fear.”

But I think you can see what I did if you’ll look at Paul’s experience in Thyatira just outside Phillipi at Macedonia. Paul and Silas were preaching in the streets the good news of the death burial and resurrection of Jesus Christ. But it wasn’t until Paul loosed a ‘spirit of divination’ from a woman possessed that things got ugly. Those whose income depended upon this ‘psychic’ stirred up the Jews and Romans in the city, and sent the magistrates after Paul and Silas. And without even hearing a word in defense commanded to have them beaten. They laid many stripes on Paul and Silas then threw them in jail. Not just in jail, locked in stocks and sent to the innermost cell in the dark. (Acts 16:16-24)

But did they cry, or curse or moan in anguish or pain? Did they complain or protest or condemn their abusers or jailers? No. They rejoiced. They sang hymns and cried out praises to Jesus. Paul as joyful as he was may have even explained salvation in his selections of song and praise. Everyone in the jail: other prisoners, guards, jailers all heard the joy and enthusiasm that lasted well past midnight. (Acts 16:25)

Then it happened. The singing was interrupted by an earthquake that shook the whole jail apart, loosened bars and stocks and gates. The jailer who was about to lose his life with the escape of these prisoners prepared to take his own life when Paul called out to cease. He told the jailer they were all there that none had fled. (Acts 16:27)

It was then that the jailer could “see,” Paul’s praise and his peace. He heard salvation with his ears and saw love and peace that transcended pain and placement. He dropped at Paul’s feet and wept “What must I do to be saved?” (Acts 16:29-30).

The jailer and “his whole household” heard the gospel message after that and were saved and baptized. Because he “saw” the reality of it in Paul, and feared. There is much more to this story; the magistrates feared as well, and it would be great if you could read this with spiritual vision and see as I did, how some “show praise and song” with much more than their voice.

I would hope, like David, many could one day say of me, there was a new song in his mouth, even praise. I saw it. I trembled and then called on the Lord. That is the greatest thing one could do, show a real Jesus so clearly that others can see him in your praise and call after him.

Gratitude

“Many, O LORD my God, are thy wonderful works which thou hast done, and thy thoughts which are to us-ward: they cannot be reckoned up in order unto thee: if I would declare and speak of them, they are more than can be numbered.” Psalm 40:5

God does so many wonderful works in my life, I barely recognize them sometimes. In the last week here in Central West Virginia we have had nothing if not abundant sunshine. It did rain and we needed it. But rain came only in the middle of the night. I can’t remember a time I ever thanked him for perfect weather. It is a wonderful work and a gift. Often, David says, we don’t even know the things he blessed us with today. He turned a drunk driver down another road before he encountered one of my family members. An inconvenient delay we want to moan about might be the very moment he led us away from a tragic event or purposely into the path of another he needed us to meet. And then there are those things we are aware of: things we know He did for us. If we contemplate them, thanking Him for everything that occurs to us today: our salvation, the salvation of our spouse and children, grandchildren and great grandchildren (for me this is 50+) naming each, them moving on to our health, our home, our resources. I could be more than all day at this. David rightly said they are more than can be numbered. One last memory on this subject. In 1993 when daughter Lorna married Aaron Frye I bought a wedding gift for them from Pilgrim’s Progress in South Charleston. It was a book titled “10,000 Things to Thank God For.” It was the closest I could come to a similar book I read in the Marines in 1972. It was the four day Labor Day weekend and having drawn the short straw I was the only one on base at Camp LeJune North Carolina that weekend. Got kind of quiet. Lonely. Boring. Guarding the base alone. However there was an advantage. I had the keys to the kingdom. I let myself into the library and spent an hour or more “guarding” or better yet, “inspecting” row after row of books. I found one that fascinated me, and I ‘borrowed’ it for the remainder of the holiday. It was titled “5,000 Reasons to Thank God.” Let me tell you, if I were wallowing in self pity, two pages in and I was suddenly grateful. It started out by saying that the first thing that separates man from his creator. The first thing to go is gratitude. Sometimes out of ignorance. Sometimes because we don’t want to retain him in our thoughts. The first page of 5,000 reasons read something like this:

“You had the wisdom to select this book. Second, you can read. Third you can understand what you are reading. You are intelligent, educated and share a small amount of wisdom. Fourth I suspect you were aided by a living mother who gave birth to you. Fifth you had a loving father as well. Just as sixth there is a loving God who is directing you to this now. Seventh you likely had a teacher, who with your parents taught you to read. You have, if all this is true, or just most of it, beaten the odds for most of the world. More than half the world cannot read, some forbidden too. They don’t have the freedom to read or inquire about a living God. Governments separate children early and use them as labor or to supplement armies. And we haven’t even identified freedoms you have to read, to select, to follow or not. Page One. You have much to thank God for already. Please take a moment to put this book down. And Thank Him.” I Have never forgotten the book that got me through a holiday weekend with such joy. Got it back to the library. Never saw it again. Made me grateful. David was right. Our blessings are more than can be numbered. By the way in the book I gave Lorna the last line reads: “It has probably already occurred to you that there are more than 10,000 more reasons to thank God. I don’t need to list them hereafter. Thank Him as they come to you.”

No longer stuck in a rut

“He brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings.” Psalm 40:2

Have you ever seen West Virginia clay? When wet it looks mild to nearly fully red and kind of like glue. It sticks to everything. Rather it sticks you to everything. It makes even the best tires spin or get stuck. Even a brief rain can turn a short piece of road into a navigational horror. That is what miry clay is. Clay that sticks you to the ground and makes it difficult to even raise your legs.

I have never been in a horrible pit. Joseph was. I’m sure he was terrified down there in the dark perhaps listening to what his angry brothers intended to do with him. I’m sure he prayed fervently. (Genesis 37:24-28)

Daniel knew. He was thrown into a lion’s den. (Daniel 16:6) Can that get any more horrible than that? Well maybe. Friends of Daniel: Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, were cast into a firey furnace, and with courage and conviction spoke these words: “If it be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of thine hand, O king. But if not, be it known unto thee, O king, that we will not serve thy gods, nor worship the golden image which thou hast set up.” Daniel 3:17-18.

King David had been in a horrible pit many times in his life. He pulled a lamb out of a bear’s mouth (1 Samuel 17:34-36). Nothing stood between him and the giant Goliath except Goliath’s armor and some rocks, gravel and rubble (1 Samuel 17:45). He was hiding in the very same cave where Saul his father-in-law stopped to use the bathroom as he and his army sought to find and kill David in the wilderness (1 Samuel 24:2-8). There were other pits too. The death of his first son Absolom who tried to tear his kingdom from him (2 Samuel 18:33) ; the death of his first son with Bathsheba (2 Samuel 12: 16-17).

I have had horrible pits in my life. Some of my own designing and digging. And for years I was stuck in a miry rut trying over and over again to do things MY WAY and questioning why He wasn’t helping me do what was right. I am so ashamed of myself for that now. As I turned that around and sought after Him and His way, He lifted me out and set me upon the ROCK Jesus and led me down a new path. Why? Because after decades of failure I finally did this:

Call upon the Lord

(To the chief Musician, A Psalm of David.) “I waited patiently for the LORD; and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry.” Psalm 40:1

The hardest thing in the world to do is wait. So. I wasn’t waiting. Instead I spent hours reading the Bible (especially directed by aquaintences who know what they were doing) I started attending church and praying even as I let go of trying to control everyone and every thing in my life.

One night after midnight while jogging between the Elkhurst Bridge and Hartland. I collapsed on the ground. All I could do for the longest time was weep. I was crying out to Jesus and yet I couldn’t even articulate what I wanted. I had been saved as a child but in the intervening years had not only had I stepped out of fellowship but had seized control of every aspect of my life, directing it as I saw morally fit. Here I was a humbled heap. Weeping. Calling out for help. He heard me. As I gained strength to stand and cross the bridge and jog back home, everything was different. Beginning thereafter miraculous things began to happen to me and members of my family and I wasn’t even involved in their occurance. I was no longer the controller. Instead I learned to be grateful. Beginning with my wife, who saw a peace in me, wondered what it was. I gave her a copy of the Gospel of John. She called me later that night to say she had decided to set down the bottle for good (she was self treating bipolar with alcohol and drugs). A few days later she told me she had seen Pastor Ralph Davis and said she was going to his church Trinity Missionary Baptist Church in Maysel Sunday and would I come with her. I had been going to a church in Elkhurst close to home, but I said ‘Yes’ and took our children with us. Joyce and my two daughters got saved that day and eventually so would our boys. We were all baptized together as a family in ice cold water (the baptismal had forgotten to be heated) on January 9, 1993 by Pastor Ralph Davis. Life for our family and the three generations that followed, changed forever. Joyce had initiated an avalanche that swept our entire family into salvation. He heard my cry. He heard hers too. Joyce sought treatment for bipolar and did very well to manage it for the next 29 years until her death. She never picked up a bottle again to self treat, just as she said she wouldn’t. The Holy Spirit worked mightily in her. And he continues to bless me.

Gratitude in Practice

“Sacrifice and offering thou didst not desire; mine ears hast thou opened: burnt offering and sin offering hast thou not required.” Psalm 40:6

King David recognized that those things we traditionally expect God wants from us falls way short of what He wants. You know many people think they ‘sacrifice’ if they show up in a church for a few hours. Sacrifice their time, their sleep even their money if they fork over a few bucks. What arrogance. They don’t know the sabbath was created for their benefit. That the time they spend in church gives them fuel and more to survive out in the world. I have an article on this blog site WHY REAL CHRISTIANS MUST ATTEND CHURCH and I will not relitigate it here (look it up and read it)

Paul in Hebrews tells us God covets our praise. “By him therefore let us offer the sacrifice of praise to God continually, that is, the fruit of our lips giving thanks to his name.” Hebrews 13:15. God tells us over in Psalms: “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.” Psalms 51:17. “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” Psalms 34:18. Even Isaiah says God resists the lofty but saves the humble and contrite (57:15). Praise him. Thank him daily. Now that is real sacrifice if sincerely meant.

King David also spoke on the need and joy of going to the House of the Lord (Psalms 122:1). I myself am pulled there every Sunday. Why? Gratitude in action. After all he blesses me with, how could I not show up to worship him. To learn what he wants me to learn, be fed spiritual food and find encouragement from my church family or offer love and hope in times of joy or great sadness. You cannot out give God. First: He gave the only sacrifice that counts. He accepted the blood of His only son as the ultimate sacrifice that ANY who would believe on him might have eternal life. (John 3:16). Trust him. And you too will be blessed.

Change your world view

“Blessed is that man that maketh the LORD his trust, and respecteth not the proud, nor such as turn aside to lies.” Psalms 40:4

I am a blessed man. I trust in the Lord. He sustains me even in adversity, trials or journeys through the Valley of Death. Some trust in the government. Some trust in education. Some trust in scientific unproven theories. Some trust only in themselves. All these worldviews, God laughs at. He proves them all false ‘lies’; some already, others in times to come as man learns more and more about things he thought once was true. (Psalms 2:4, 59:8, Proverbs 1:26). If you are not being blessed: reconsider your worldview. Trust ONLY in him.

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Why I am compelled to write

April 22, 2023Family History, Life, Politics, Pop Culture, Uncategorizedblogging, Creative WritingGary Stuber

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Painting in Pictures

I’m a creative guy. When I was five I sat in my mother’s lap as she drew and armed with my own pencil I drew too. Often mimicking her own images, I found myself doing more complex art before I was six. By the time I was ten my art had evolved from early pencil drawings to crayon, then charcoal, watercolor, oils and back to pencil sketches. I was going to be a comic book artist by the time I was fifteen and made plans to do so at that age. About that time also I discovered a new talent: story crafting. I took typing in my freshman year and my story telling ability exploded, far exceeding my talent at visual arts. The expression is: a picture is worth a thousand words. While that may be true, at 90+ words a minute and a vivid imagination I could paint a number of pictures with my words in less than an hour. And a ream of typing paper was far less costly than canvas. It would be decades however before my grammar and spelling would make better masterpieces.

it is funny how technology changes almost everything. Today’s youth can write limitless papers in perfect grammar and spelling with no effort (and no white-out) by turning on literacy functions within word apps. I really wonder if this is growth.

Here is the other thing I learned early as a result of paying attention in Sunday School: Word Pictures. Nathan was trying to tell King David something difficult. Actually he was risking his own head. He was calling David an adulterer and a murderer who had strayed away from God. And even though he was a priest, an outright accusation could have gotten him into a shouting match and then a death sentence. So what Nathan did was paint a story with words that let David get downright angry at a fictional character who stole another’s property and destroyed it. Once David condemned that man, Nathan said, ‘that man is you.’ And David could see himself for what he was, and remorsefully turned back to the God of Israel. These ‘word pictures’ have been used over the years by many in history. Parables. Both in the Bible and those from the moralistic Greek storytellers are good examples. I learned even in childhood then, to craft a story to meet a need to deliver difficult ideas or to win arguments. It’s easier to win over someone to your idea if you can get them to see it first in a word picture. Most, maybe, will see the point far before the tale is finished and agree, some even believe later that they stumbled on your idea even before you did. Especially when you give it some time before you argue your point.

The gift of gab

I’m not quite sure if gab is a gift. But if it is, well I was very gifted. I say ‘was’ as in past tense. There was a time in my youth, when bringing to bear all my skills of painting word pictures, the logic I had developed as a computer programmer, my creative artistic juices and my argumentative skills as a debater that I quite possibly could have sold ice makers to Eskimos.

Gary gave ‘incites’ years before he gave insights

in fact, regrettably, I probably did. Metaphorically. During my stint as a comic book dealer I was more used car dealer than proper salesman. That is the reason I gave that all up when a spiritual revival came into my life. You can’t lie and or steal and still follow after Christ. You serve Christ or Mammon, but not both.

Even now, I could win argument by these old skills. But. No longer by gab. The tongue, like other body parts moves a little slower but that isn’t it either. No. The issue is memory.

Is that deja vu or am I doing this the first time?

There is a term for that memory loss that even the youthful feel when they walk into a room and forget why. And full blown Alzheimer’s can leave one totally disconnected from everyone. What I’m talking about is something beneign in between. For someone who lives to paint word pictures this is tragic indeed. I can be just having a conversation with anyone and a simple word will come up and I will draw a blank, stumbling over it. I can’t say it. I don’t remember what the word is. I can be across from it. A fire extinguisher on the wall across from me and I will stumble. ‘Uuuuhh. Umm what do you call it? That thing you use to put out fires?’ I hate it when people in frustration start guessing. Erroneously. ‘Hoses? Firemen? Fire trucks?’ And I have to keep describing or pointing. No painting word pictures when you’ve run out of blue or yellow paint. And it can be such simple words, and always random: bread, monitor, doorbell. The list is endless. Never comes up twice. Still. It’s like freezing up during public speaking. “Pardon me while I take five minutes to remember a word. I might need your help if I can’t.”

You can readily see this is not an issue when I write. I can take all the time I need to remember the word or the thought. I can edit, re-edit or even change direction entirely. Seemlessly. This I cannot do while speaking. And my editing software includes a thesaurus. So if I can type another word meaning roughly the same thing, well: a thesaurus gives me many opportunities to find, or remember the word in question. No pauses in the prose when written instead of spoken.

Created inside me; I allowed it to escape upon the world

And then there is that imagination. That creative force that wakes me up in the middle of the night with crazy or wonderful ideas. Ideas that become rich plots in fiction yet unpublished. I have completed two novels in my life. One, upon recognizing how worldly, sensual and vulgur it was, became a pleasure to turn into ash and smoke. (Tip: you have to separate 700 typewritten pages to burn it, as a huge lump or stack of paper will not burn if it is not). The second novel adheres more to my present (and faithful) worldview. Although it might appeal to atheists and agnostics in their worldview. But I assure you that it is just a trap. Yep I’m still word picturing people into recognizing their own sins in the fictionalized lives of others and show them subtly how to shed it. Not deviously. In his parable of the Unjust Steward, Christ commended him and called him wiser than the children of light. Again I’m not doing this deviously. I’m letting THEM see error first; leading them to self actualization and then lead them to a change of heart. And this novel I describe as “Five stories, like a modern twilight zone collection craftily leading worldly readers to a radical twist at the end of each and, forcing after that satisfying chuckle fades away, to ponder their present reality and how they can escape that carnal nature.“ Sorry I can’t say more than that. Not even a title. I am in my seventh review and re-write of several of these five. This one will get published when the Lord tells me it is ready and time to share.

In the meantime, I have much fiction in various stages of writing and much more ‘incite-ful’ informative prose, like this, to satisfy my compulsion to write and express deeply held convictions.

The World’s Best Outlet

There used to be a lot of flourishing local papers. There editorial pages were once open to diverse ideas. They encouraged it. A controversial opinion could generate hundreds of letters in response (and consequently sell a lot of papers). By that standard I probably added a lot of wealth to the Charleston Gazette. No longer. Newspapers (if they have survived) print only what aligns with their own biases. No disenting here. Goodby free press. Thus no controversial viewpoints are ever made and none ever read. That is if any editorial responses are ever read. Newspaper decline suggests they are not.

By contrast the most freely open controversial outlet for content these days is the web. Even here you must be careful. Opinion is disguised as news. Misinformation reigns. And opinion and misinfornation is dropped everywhere by largely anonymous sources who are working agendas of their own.

The blogger is a much safer bet. He identifies himself, He provides an avenue for response. He leaves an unbroken public record of who he (or she) is. That is not to say that most bloggers don’t have agendas of their own. And can just as easily as others extend misinformation. However a few have ideas worthy of navagation.

Good bloggers must be good storytellers. Not given to random outbursts and virtue signaling. They must organize their thoughts. They clearly state beliefs and use practical, logical argument to reinforce that point, while laying waste to the opposite view. And they CANNOT overlook any opposing argument by ignoring it. Here is why: if they want to convince you, they must first defend their own view internally. If there is an opposite compelling argument that weakens their own, they must wonder: am I wrong? Beyond organized storytelling, based on compelling argument they must use wit and humor. Not sarcasm. Humor something that makes them smile in agreement. I was once told the perfect definition of tact. Tact is the ability to tell someone to go to hell with such humor and excitement that they actually look forward to the trip. Good bloggers can do these things. Make people seriously reconsider their own state of belief and armed with reasons for the change. And they give away a laugh or two along tfe way. More. Readers are willing to come back later to see what you have to say. That. That is the personal highest form of acknowledgement that you are indeed a good writer. I have yet to be acknowledged on this stage. But I feel privileged just to be standing on it.

Leave More than a Legacy; Leave a Library

My very first blog entry was the lament of a workaholic forced into disability retirement. An exercise in logic and humor. Then I was inspired by spiritual moments in my life that made me who I am. My posts then became historical family moments. Or spiritual ones left as a legacy to my family. Moments or argument too long for Facebook began to swell into blog posts. I did family history on my parents, grandparents, my 48-year marriage to my penpal. For friends and classmates I did a travelogue back to my hometown. I discovered I am leaving a library behind. A library that I hope will be appreciated someday by my very large extending family.

Putting a bow on it

in summary you might say I am compelled to write for some very deeply held convictions. And if the entirety of my work is not discovered or largely unread until eons after my passing, that is perfectly fine. I put it all down in order as I had too, to meet my goal.

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Joyce’s 2022 Journey

December 8, 2022Faith, Family History, Life, UncategorizedClay West Virginia, FaithGary Stuber

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At 1:02 am on December 10, 2022, two days after posting this blog, Joyce Stuber went home to glory. Right now she is kicking up gold dust in heaven in what is probably her greatest time. Whole. For the first time in her eternal life not suffering any physical or mental limitations. Free. REALLY free. I may be sad but cannot be unhappy for her. The day she went to the alter in 1992 and dragged Lorna and Leona with her, she started an avalanche that would transform not just one, but two, maybe three generations of our family for eternity.

Joyce’s story

It is probably time I write this story. I haven’t posted any blog in some time. I have been distracted by a medical crisis that my wife has been suffering through, pretty much all year. Even as I write this my wife is trying to recover from two emergency left side brain operations. 24 hours and only no purposeful movement or response. But then her head is still swelled from traumatic surgery. I am patiently waiting.

If anyone can survive brain surgery it is Joyce. May 6, 2003 Joyce had a brain tumor removed from her right temple. Spent two weeks in a coma and bounced back better than ever. I have seen so many miracles with this woman I don’t have enough fingers and toes (or even body parts) to list them all. I am also mindful that I must temper what I write so if she suddenly regains awareness and reads what I have written , if it is embarrassing or too personal she will kick my butt and give me and the world an earful. If there is anything YOU can do it is pray. Join an army of prayer warriors.

How this all started

Joyce had been coughing all winter, living on cough drops. Her primary doctor sent her to a Pulmonologist Morgan Meeks who could find nothing. Except. She had unusually high eosinophils. Those are specialized white blood cells that go after allergens. She tested her for every allergy and could find nothing. Meantime, a heart doctor was consulted. Dr. Mitchel Rashid did a heart cath and said she was pretty good except the finest blood vessels around her heart where veins met arteries (capillaries) were partly blocked so he put her on a mild nitrate to unblock them. A few months later on May 5th they called her into his office for an echo with Doppler. She told me as we were leaving that they literally called every tech, nurse and person in to see it since “they had only seen this in text books.” When she asked what was going on she was told: “Liability. We can’t say. But your doctor will call you when he sees this.” (Note: He never did call). We left his South Charleston office directly to our youngest daughter, Leona’s house in Beckley. That was May 5th. Joyce was to stay at her house feed dogs and cats while their whole family left for Virginia Beach. That was a Friday and I was to return to Clay County and work Monday thru Wednesday and then join her. She had breathing problems and was so weak she was mostly bed ridden that weekend, and the entire week, really. I stayed the week to feed animals. She refused to see doctor using her nebulizer when it was hard for her to breathe. I told her I would just wait till she passed out and call an ambulance. Leona was due back Saturday but I finally talked her into going to Med Express a few miles from Leona’s house on Friday the 13th. Andrew had arrived home early as we were headed out. I got her there and asked for help getting her in. She needed a wheel chair. She never made it in the door. As I was filling out paperwork, they checked her oxygen which was 22% and called an ambulance. When it arrived I was asked this question: Raleigh General or Beckley Appalachia Regional Hospital? I asked which is closer to here? BAR-H. So we went. It was 5 miles from Leona’s house.

The BAR-H Experience

Friday the Thirteenth in the ER. Do I have to say more? There were eight guernies ahead of us in the hallway waiting to get admitted to ER. It was a five hour wait. Once we got in the ER they did a chest x-ray and put her on oxygen. Then another four hour wait. As a nurse came by I asked about the doctor and the x-ray. I had seen the x-ray as they took it. Many big white blotches all connected with what looked like spider-webs. Nurse said, “The doctor is on his way and has seen the x-ray. It looks like Covid.” My heart sank. Seemed like a death sentance for a woman who had refused the Covid vaccines and had survived Covid twice in 2021. Two hours later the doctor arrived. “We are admitting her,” he said. “Covid?” I asked. “No.” He said, “Double pneumonia. She is lucky to just be alive.” After 12 and a half hours after arriving at the ER, Joyce was admitted.

It was touch and go the next two days. On Monday, with Leona back, they decided to drain out fluid from under her lung. 600 ml under one lung. 400 under the other.

They also gave her a heart echo and advised us they found a blood clot in her heart. This was the anomoly they found in Rashid’s office. He had never called us. We asked the hospital to call him. They said they tried, wanting records. Maybe I could. I did. Ended up arguing with a ‘Kim’ about the urgency of having Rashid call us back. He never did. She spent 15 days at BAR-H recovering from Double Pneumonia mostly on steroids and anti-biotics.

They released her to Leona’s house five miles away. She was so weak from loss of muscle tone we had to lift her off the bed and help her walk to the bathroom. Yet she refused physical therapy coming to see her. She insisted she would do this on her own. We scheduled appointments a week from release with both Meeks and Rashid. We requested both get her BAR-H hospital records prior to us seeing them. Joyce was stepped down from antibiotics and steroids. That was a mistake as you will see. She was sent home on oxygen.

The interim doctor experiences

We saw Meeks first. She, we discovered, is only a PA working for what doctor we never knew. She still could not explain the super high eosinophils but wanted to do a ‘parasite’ blood test. We did the blood test. Next day we saw Rashid. Correction. We saw his PA Holly. Apparently Rashid was too busy to see a heart clot patient recently released from the hospital. They had neglected to request records so I gave a verbal account. She scheduled a ‘tele-med’ appointment with herself for a month away.

The CAMC Memorial Hospital experience

Exactly a week later Leona rushes her mother who can’t breathe back to the ER. But this time to CAMC Memorial in Charleston, Joyce’s hospital, where all six of her doctors, including her primary doctor all practice. In the ER they would lose her oxygen tank and it would be a week before I could recover it. She had double pneumonia again. In the ER where I met her doctors, one of them (staff called an odd duck) was a young doctor Moorehead. He said: “I know what this is. West Virginia doctors have never seen this. It’s very rare. Hypereosinophilic Syndrome.” He had checked Meeks parasite test which was negative. Rare indeed. Only 1 percent of 1 percent of the world ever get this. The eosinophils when they don’t find allergens can attack blood vessels (like capillaries around her heart) the lungs (like infecting tissue causing double pneumonia) and the heart (creating a blood clot in the heart). If it goes on to the gastric and stomach it is too late and you can die. Luckily it had not gotten to that stage. He had trouble convincing others but they consented to his suggested treatment: the ‘atomic bomb’ of steroids. 125 mg three times a day for five days. It did the job. Killed out all the eosinophils. But. She went scitzophrenic and paranoid. She would have lucid waking dreams of a war going on outside. She would see nurses attacked and killed in the hallways. She would see dogs and cats wandering about. It took six nurses to hold her down to knock her out so they could put her on a ventilator and keep her unconscious for the four remaining days on the steroid ‘bomb’.

The 10 million dollar woman (6 million adjusted for inflation.) has at least 10 monitors in this photo.

She had three teams: three pulmonologists; three hematologists and three heart doctors and the only thing they could agree on is that she was doing better on steroids by killing out the eosinophils. Nine doctors could not agree that it was Hypereosinophilic Syndrome. I saw the clot now a second time. Heart doctors there put her on Eloquis a blood thinner to mitigate its growth. It was bigger and clinging to the side of the heart chamber. All nine agreed to this: transferring her to Ruby Memorial in Morgantown where they could confirm the rare illness with a heart biopsy. So after fifteen days they packed her up and sent her to Morgantown. During her first Charleston stay I slept on a long bench in the Surgical ICU waiting room. This would change.

The Ruby Memorial Hospital Experience

Ruby Memorial had asked for her to be transferred so when we got there and spent the first couple of days in Surgical ICU I asked the heart team when they would do the heart biopsy to confirm the Hypereosinophilic Syndrome. The lead heart doctor laughed, “Lord no. We know the diagnosis is correct. We have seen all the echos and the MRI. We have seen the steroids do the job. We don’t need a biopsy to confirm. But we are glad you are here with this very rare clot so we can use this to teach a whole lot of young doctors.” Again she had a team of three heart doctors, three blood doctors and three lung doctors. It is impossible to get nine people to fully agree on anything. They added a tenth doctor: Dr. Pepper. Seriously. He was an immunologist and his job to keep eosinophils out of her body by a combination of adjusting steroids down and adding a Nucala infusion. (Upon her release she would get this infusion on the sixteenth of every month up to the present time at Summersville.) Over the next seventeen days she would be seen by multiple ‘classes’ during rounds. I signed permission for them to use these images and data in future classrooms. The blood team wanted to rule out a rare cancer so they did a bone biopsy on her hip. The poor Asian doctor had to almost stand on her to penetrate the bone. No osteoporosis in this woman. Her bones are STRONG. No bone cancer. Meantime I had arranged to stay at the hospitality house at the hospital. My church picked up the small nightly Rosenbaum House fee for which I am grateful. No sleeping in the car this time. Doctors took Joyce off Eloquis and had her on a blood thinner Heparin but transitioned her over to Warfarin (cummoden) before release. They said it had ‘more successful data’ than Eloquis. They also gave us Lovenox injections to inject into her stomach twice a day. They released her back to Leona’s because it was five miles from an emergency hospital. Our home in Clay County was 65 miles from a hospital. She was in danger of bleeding with a fall. And she was weaker than ever now.

Life away from her own home

She insisted upon getting up on her own to go to the bathroom but we wouldn’t let her. She was too week. But in the middle of the night if we weren’t watching she did anyway. One night she got up and after using the bathroom fell and banged her head and ribs on the bath tub. The next day we took her to the ER to get checked. Bruised but fine. Her right eye looked awful. She fell a number of times after, but on soft carpet or furniture. She insisted on going home. She loved her grandkids but activity was too much for her. Besides she missed her dogs. But my greatest fear is that she would get cut and bleed out (she was on cummoden a strong blood thinner) or have a possible stroke if a piece of the clot broke off and migrated to lung, a limb or brain. And if so, we would be 65 miles from a hospital in a place where Clay County ambulances are undependable. The day our tallest son Greg died in April 2020, both Brandy his wife and I called the ambulance and it took them 90 minutes to come seven miles. I didn’t want Joyce to die waiting on an ambulance.

A test of fath: the REAL test.

Youngest daughter Leona had a serious conversation with me about faith. If you took mama home, do you think God would just kill her? Of course not. You do think He is sustaining her even now? Yes. Well, take mama home. If the worst happens He will allow her to survive it. So I took mama home. Our youngest son, Chris and wife Melanie were staying at our property (in a camper they had moved in) feeding our dogs, their dogs, mama’s cats, Guinea pigs, two goats and 13 chickens in our absence. They weren’t really responsible for keeping our place clean and tidy and with our dogs in charge of our bedroom it looked like dogs were in charge. So upon our arrival mama, weak and frail started cleaning the house. I was muscle and gofer, moving furniture so she could sweep out under. We did three rooms. By the third day I was exhausted. When Sunday came up I told her I hadn’t been to church since this began so I wanted to attend. I gave her breakfast turned on tv, and asked her to stay in bed till I got back.

The worst realized

Little more than an hour later I got a text as the preaher began his sermon from my son Chris. “Joyce fell. Think she’s having a stroke. Arm curled and talking funny . . .” I left church immediately and drove home as fast as I could.

On the way I called Chris and asked him to call an ambulance. He said he tried and couldn’t get through. So I called. “I’m sorry.” The young male dispatcher said, “There are no ambulances in Clay County right now.” My worst fear was realized. “I can call one out of Kanawha County.” I said do it, I can meet them on I-79 at Clendenin. Once home Chris helped me lift her dead weight into the passenger seat and I flew as fast as possible through Elkhurst, through Clay, through Maysel and up Route 36 to I-79. I was approaching the Clendenin exit when I got a call back from the dispatcher. “Kanawha Ambulance is preparing to leave now. It will take them an hour.” I screamed back at him. An hour? I’m at Clendenin. I will be at the hospital in about 15 minutes. He said I will cancel the call just get her in. I did. My fastest time ever I arrived within the hour of placing the call to Clay Ambulance. I must have been doing more than ninety and I was hoping someone would stop me. I wanted an escort. When I pulled up to the door at CAMC Memorial ER a nurse who met me said “This woman is having a stroke. Where did you come from?” I said Clay County. She asked angrily: “Why didn’t you call an ambulance?” As much as I wanted to berate her, I let that go. Within 20 minutes without giving her anything (they couldn’t: she was on blood thinners) she started improving. She got some strength in her right leg. Her face improved a little and we could understand as she talked. Of course they admitted her and sent her upstairs. Back to Surgery ICU. However I learned quickly I could not sleep inside the building, let alone in the waiting room. A resurgence of Covid this spring had forced new policies for summer. At first I was sleeping in my car but one of the Social Workers found me accommodations at the local Hospitality House. My church again was willing to step up and help me, but the facility waived the fee, bless them.

A shocking image of old glory

I was aware that Dr. Lauren Searls was Joyce’s primary doctor at the Med clinic I always took her to see her at this hospital. But Searls is a resident. Joyce’s primary doctor (according to her insurance) is Dr. Andrea Stark. I met her for the first time at Joyce’s bedside as she took the helm of the team assigned to her. Joyce had a number of bleeds in her brain due to the stroke. They had to take her off blood thinners for five days while they waited for bleeding to stop. Those five days in July were intense as we were aware more strokes could happen. Basically they did nothing but wait. Well. That is not exactly true. She continued to show improvement from stroke damages. All but her right arm eventually. The third day there they sent in a young tech who had a portable Echo Imager with Doppler. As he looked at her heart, we watched the screen. What I saw was shocking. Images I saw before were of a big clot, but it always clung solidly to the wall of the upper left ventricular. Now, not only was it bigger, but it stuck out from the wall of her heart, and like a ‘ragged old-glory flag’ was waving in the chamber with every beat of her heart. The shredded stripes moving about on their own hanging tenuously as if they could break off at any moment. He was stunned and looked over at us. I told him, we knew about the clot since May. He was relieved. But this was NEW so we were stunned. It certainly explained the stroke. Some of the fringes had broken off and went to her brain. And could happen again. Actually it did, while she was hospitalized, and during a time when she was therapeutically on cummoden. After five days and the brain bleed had stopped, they first put her back on Heparin, and doing regular CT’s to see if brain was bleeding.

Shortly after she was on cummoden and at perfect range when she had a clot move to her thigh and cut off blood to her leg. They did emergency surgery to remove clot and save her leg. But we were at square one again. The only thing left to try was Pradaxa. They needed at least two doses in her before they could release her. Again with no guarantees she wouldn’t throw another clot somewhere. I remember the day well. I sat on the edge of Joyce’s hospital bed and Dr. Stark sat with me. She told me it would take six months to see the effectiveness of Pradaxa. I asked what are her odds of surviving six months. She said: “15 percent”. I said that is not good. She said, “You said you had an army of prayer warriors praying for her and it has worked so far. Count me in. I will be praying too.” She released us and we went back home.

Granddaughter Annabelle does mamaw’s nails during a visit to see Joyce after her stroke. This is her unaffected left arm. Already her face was improving from the droop.

Learning a new way of life

I was chief cook and bottle-washer, as well as butler, servant and perpetual company. And sometimes I had to do this while being berated. You see, Joyce had been manic depressive (bipolar) most of her life and managed well on Prozac. However the playbook went out the window after the stroke. She was mostly stuck in a manic (angry) phase. Occasionally this was a mixed phase as she would transition quickly to depression and remorse. It would take months to readjust her meds out of this and make her more even keeled. In the meantime she had a huge fall. And while I tried to get her seen upstairs for this by Dr. Searls, when she saw her she sent her downstairs to the ER there at Memorial. There she spent three days before being admitted and ‘watched.’ The bumps on her head were severe but ultimately did no damage. They did this out of an abundance of caution. Her fifth admittance was only five days in length there in September. She was sent home.

Finally hope restored

I had a one day surgery of my own having a spinal stimulator put in my spine, courtesy of the VA but surgery performed at Spine and Nerve center in Charleston. Finally I could do all this work mostly pain free. Later I would confirm with my own visit to the CAMC ER I had a hernia on my right side. I had first reported this to my VA doctor last spring. But he told me I did not. The VA Hospital arranged for CAMC Memorial physician Dr. Walker to see me on December 13. Joyce had an Echo with Doppler on October 20 that Holly at Rashid’s office had set up. So we went to CAMC Memorial Cardio Imaging and they did the echo. Eleven days later in Rashid’s office he himself told us the heart clot was gone. We were elated and told all the family the good news.

Why the setback?

But eight days later Joyce’s eyes went cross-eyed one morning. She couldn’t focus and it made her dizzy and nauseous. We took her to the local Primary Care but they urged us to go to Charleston and the emergency room.

One eye looks to the right as requested. The left eye cannot and is stuck. This photo helped Doctors diagnose a stroke

We did. We were expecting an eye doctor. We got a whole trauma team. This was in fact another stroke. The eye righted itself but she was admitted where we discovered in a new Echo with Doppler that not only was the clot not gone, it was three times the original size. The November 8 event saved her life. We would have been ignorant of this till it killed her. She was they said, weeks away from a heart attack or congestive heart failure. Worse. Pradaxa the last miracle blood thinner failed her. Now, we were told that the same risky operation they were unwilling to do in August was her only chance of survival. Open heart surgery. She told doctor Kister yes. But a little more than an hour later another surgeon introduced himself, Dr. Alwair. He said he had a casual conversation about this surgery with Kister and had a different proposal: minimally invasive surgery going in from the side between ribs and he is right there at the top left ventricular. A small slice and can scoop the bulk of it out. Again she said yes. He said we need to get past three weeks ( November 29) from the stroke and would like to do surgery first week of December. To go past that was dangerous every day we delayed. But between the 14th and the twenty-ninth we had a Thanksgiving Day holiday. Suffice it to say (without assigning blame to names) people directly involved with applying to insurance and then scheduling surgery dropped the ball. No surgery was scheduled.

Straw that broke the camel’s back

The first weekend in December Joyce was both nauseous and had a massive headache. Monday December 5 it was all I could do to get her to the car by 9:00 am and grab my go bag and head to the CAMC Memorial ER. There again they said this was a stroke was largely unresponsive and transfered her to CAMC General to their Neurological Surgery department. She was immediately admitted. I slept in the car that night just outside in the parking building. Glad I did. I got the call at 2:16 am on Tuesday morning to come back inside.

Just before surgery Joyce was ventilated and could only squeeze my hand as a response.

I met a Nerosurgeon Dr. Orphanus who told me they needed to do emergency brain surgery on her left temple to take the pressure off her brain. He described everything I could expect in twenty minutes and I signed consent papers. Apparently it was not due to a stroke or fall but a weak blood vessel that burst. This aneurism is what caused the bleed and pressure. Likely her own blood thinners were the cause. We may never know. At 2:44 am they took her into surgery. It was the last time she would squeeze my hand after I squeezed hers. She was ventilated and could not speak. I waited in the waiting area. And he came out at 4:30 saying he did not leave a flap (a piece of bone out of the skull). He was hoping this would do. I got to spend 15 minutes with her before I had to go back to the car and sleep. At 11 when visitation resumed I was there. She looked worse. Swollen. And some of her wound was bleeding. I asked the nurse to ask her neurosurgeon if this was normal. They sent a Neuro PA who once she saw it called in Doctor Orphanus. He decided to take her first to CT than surgery where he did the operation again about twelve hours after the first. We had a long talk after about managing expectation for someone her age. Afterwards there was little response so I left her room early to sleep. I got there early on Wednesday December 7 and was told that new CT is good. Brain has expanded back. Worst source of blood was blocked. Neuro pathways are open and no pressure on the brain brain. He had left a flap this time and while she still looked swollen she should be getting conscious. Again how much she will gain back is the question. And, how soon. By the end of the day I got no response. No finger squeeze. Not a rise in blood pressure. Nothing. Only God knows if she is just taking a break or preparing to go home. Emotionally I am all over the map, but I am not hopeless. I have seen her turn around in situations as bad as this.

I am not in charge

Finally got a call from Dr. Alwair, her heart surgeon this morning. Says he has been following the case. Says heart surgery is off the table unless there is a miraculous recovery soon. He confessed he was dreading the surgery before because he imagined the surgery would have put her in the position she is in now. He does not expect her to recover. Her doctor say by Monday they have to remove ventilator and want to know if they can put a feeder in her stomach and an air vent in her throat. I will need to have an answer by Friday. But we had this prior discussion, Joyce and I: she did not want to live as a vegetable. We are following the Lord’s plan. I know this: he is doing what is best for her. As I write this December 8, 2022 there is still time. Still hope. And I wait. And I will see if she goes home with me, or home with Greg. We had discussed this many times, Joyce and I. Either way is a win-win for her. And that makes me smile.

Pass it along

Visiting Home: Dunkirk Ohio Three Decades Later

October 26, 20211971 HN Class Reunuin, Family History, UncategorizedGary Stuber

Pass it along

Can you really go home?

You can’t go home again was Thomas Wolfe’s second novel and the quote most often attributed to him. Critics, reviewers, philosophy aside, I can say that statement is largely true. Particularly when ‘home’ has been somewhere else for twenty-eight years since my father’s passing. Despite being the eldest of six siblings, and none of us still living in the community where we were raised, I always saw my father as the paste that still stuck us together in this place.

Dunkirk Ohio is a sleepy little community on Route 68 north of Kenton in the middle of Ohio’s cornbelt. If there weren’t two stoplights on Main Street most passers-by would never stop at all on their way to Toledo or other points north.

As I write these words sitting on a park bench in the Dunkirk Community Park and have taken the penny memory tour down most of its streets and down memory lane, I am reflecting how very little remains of the village I once knew. I knew it intimately once. I was a paperboy here from the age twelve to the age of eighteen, delivering both a morning and evening paper from two rival newspapers to all points in and around town on bicycle. I wonder now as I sit here if there are any paper boys left in this digital age.

A bright sunny August Saturday morning with a gentle cool breeze, and yet at nine thirty I am alone, waiting on a meeting with my youngest sister. Three baseball fields, mowed and groomed, sit idle. Swings, slides and other recreational toys stand quiet flowing with a gentle breeze. No children anywhere. In the distance I see three industrial wind turbines quietly generating energy. These are new to the landscape. A row of them leads west to another sleepy town of Dola. The town’s water supply stands proudly in the park. Another change as the Iconic tower on the south side is gone, for I don’t know how many years. The park has three playgrounds, a basketball court and has quadrupled in size. Yet stands empty on this pleasant Summer morning. Gone is the old army tank. All that remains in its place is a sign that says keep off the tank. It has been moved downtown in what looks like a Veteran’s Memorial that remains unfinished.

Inappropriate sign — *The army tank is gone. The sign is still there. Many a time have I climbed up underneath this tank and got inside.*

Town Bell Memorial — *The old town bell painted silver and set on a concrete memorial is gone. All that remains is a patch of rubble. My very first charcoal drawing was of this memorial.*

Newer Water Tower — *The water tower now stands in the Dunkirk Park. The old pointed water tank visible on the Southside is no more.*

The Familiar and the Strange Coexisting

As I drove here from the majestic mountains of central West Virginia which has been my home since I met my pen pal and married her in 1974, I saw more and more sky as I reached the flat cornbelt country of Hardin County. And I was comforted in this post-Covid crisis year as I saw mile after mile of field of corn and soybeans, alfalfa or hay between the straight highways. Comfort indeed. Many friends had discomfited me telling me that last year many Ohio fields had gone unplowed, or since Marajuana legislation had passed last year, many farmers had elected to plant a more lucurative crop. It is comforting to know that corn is still king in the cornbelt.

I swung by the old home place at 259 West Patterson street. Looks strange now. The shrubs and trees that framed the property are all gone now. Gone is the more than two hundred year old black walnut tree that stood gigantically over the property and was there even before the house was erected in 1803, a year before Ohio was even a state. The grape harbor of Concord purple and white Niagra grape vine imported in from the early 1800’s and so tenderly kept producing by my father are all gone. A cheaply erected vinyl swimming pool in a metal frame stands where they used too. The allys behind the properties all gone now as homeowners have reclaimed them. Home doesn’t even look like home anymore and has changed ownership at least thrice since my father passed.

The Homeplace from the front — *No shrubs. No rock garden. No walnut tree. No trees. No sidewalk. Almost unrecognizable Homeplace from Patterson street.*

The Homeplace — *The shrub trees that fram the property are gone. So is the 200 year old walnut tree that dominated the front yard.*

Basement Entrance — *I helped my father dig out this old basement entrance buried for a hundred years until 1966. In 1969 I carved the names of the X-Men into the new cement basement walls.*

Gary’s home — *This is a view of my homeplace from the side. My bedroom shared with three other brother is the top window this side on the right*.

My Fathers Garage — *The garage my father and I built still stands on the old home place. It is now framed in metal.*

My Fathers Grape Arbor — A temp swimming pool sits where a nearby 200 year old grape arbor stood. In 1804 Niagara white grape and Concorde Purple grape were planted in this arbor and carefully nurtured by my father in 1962 until his death three decades later.

Oh to be sure, some things have remained. The little Methodist church on Walnut where I attended Sunday school with my family is still there. The old Rail Road control building is still there at the intersection of what was the New York Central and the Pennsylvania Railroads. The campground for many decades of revivals stands, freshly painted and property groomed. The Dairy Dream still stands next to the Masonic Temple, an icon deserted now. Even the K-12 school I attended for 12 years stands where it always did, but the Hardin Northern school like a modern movie monster has blossomed, exploded all over itself in new growth completely engulfing the original familiar structure. Park in the back I am instructed for my 50th Class Reunion and come into the cafeteria. Wonder which of these doors that is?

Dairy Dream and Masonic Temple — *The only icons still recognizable after 50 years is the Dairy Dream and the now vacant Masonic Temple next to it. If it weren’t for the stoplight here would many stop?*

Business strip — *The Post Office is still on the business strip but that is not Meeks’ Drug Store next to it. There is a bank still on the corner.*

*Oldakers is gone. Sinclair Gas across from it is now an equipment supply.*

*Southside. The first thing you encounter coming into town, across from the McCleese home. Some images never change.*

The McCleese Home — *Gloria McCleese, seven years old, gave me my first kiss under the window sill outside my house. I was six.*

*The Methodist Church where I got my foundation. I was brought here every Sunday morning from age six to the age of thirteen.*

The Dunkirk Quarry a staple of my youth and the favorite fishing place of all my friends and family is now inaccessible. Privately owned it is completely surrounded by miles of fence. Privacy fence. You can’t even see into it.

*While the Fire Department and EMS still exist they are in separate buildings now.*

I took time to visit the Dunkirk Cemetery. No one there has moved. Sorry. Couldn’t resist. My father and mother are buried next to one another. So is my maternal grandfather and grand mother buried not far from them, also together. Next to them is my sister Linda’s child stricken shortly after birth.

Grandparents Grave marker — *My maternal grandparents John and Orthello Fout are buried in Dunkirk.*

Parents Grave marker — *My parents Leo and Wanda Stuber are buried in Dunkirk.*

The Drive-In — Located midway on Route 68 between Kenton and Dunkirk is the Drive-In that still operates. Screens have moved. Two of them on opposite sides like football goalposts. You can watch either screen but not both.

Except for a few strangers who stopped at the Dairy Dream that morning and early afternoon I encountered no one. No homeowners, neighbors cutting grass, no teens on the streets or children playing in yards. Like a moment stuck perpetually in time: buildings, empty streets and quiet houses. No dogs barked. No cats wandered about. Only a gentle breeze moved leaves about on the trees.

The Stuber Siblings — This photo was taken at the Washington Street home months before we moved into the Patterson Street home in 1962. The three older siblings in the back are left to right (and Chronologically): Gary (me), Linda and Mike, all a year apart. Then our parents took a four year break, after which they had the three little children in front Robert, Jean and Joe also a year apart.

A Mini-Stuber Reunion

The first to arrive to our pre-arranged meeting in the park was my nephew Jessie whom I had not seen since he was a little more than toddler living in downtown Kenton on Cherry street. We had met only hours earlier Friday night at his dad’s house (I will relate that story later in this missive). Next to arrive was my sister Jean whom I had not seen since we stood together at the graveside of our father. We had talked a number of times by phone, and I had seen her a number of times in other family photos and posts, but this is the first time we had actually got to sit face to face or hug in more than two decades. She had son Josh and a granddaughter, Sarah’s girl Jacquline (Jack) with her. She looked tired, but I knew why. She had gotten off a shift earlier and was expected to work again this evening and I had pulled her nearly 70 plus miles away from needed sleep. I would try to keep our reunion brief as I was aware my sister had places to be. Final arrival was Jean’s daughter Hannah whom was the most familiar to me as we have been following one another on Facebook for years. We may be opposites politically, but being a hard-working, old-school capitalist like myself working the American dream, she was a niece I was proud of, and come to know well. She had her daughter with her. Both teens soon wandered off on their own, being teen girls who had more in common with each other than any of us. We didn’t let a photo opportunity, however, pass us by. Jessie remarked that this was the first time he had seen some of his cousins, others not for years. It was a learning opportunity for all of us. I got a warm hug from both Jean and Hannah, but I got many warm hugs from Josh, Jean’s developmentally challenged son. He took to me quickly. Hannah assured me that he did this with most people. In fact, in many quarters both Hannah and Jean are known as: “that’s Josh’s Mom” or “that’s Josh’s sister.” Everyone who gets to met him, learns to know him and love him. One of those souls that no one cannot like.

Outnumbered — *Poor Josh. The girls far and away outnumber the boys in Jean’s branch of the family.*

Nieces and nephews — *Nephew Jessie in the front. Right to left in the back are: Niece Hannah, her daughter Nixon, grand niece (Sarah’s daughter) Jacquline (Jack), and of course Nephew Josh on the left.*

My Sister Jean and I — *My sister Jean and I and her son Josh.*

It was a good time. Too brief. But we had covered much and promised this would not be our last. Maybe we could actually pull off a Stuber reunion next year. After hugs and photos and a few hours that felt like minutes, we went our separate ways. I was alone in the park again. I wandered about the town once more, taking photos.

My Grandfathers Homeplace — *My grandfather’s home place is just a vacant lot. The home and commercial garage are gone.*

The field across from all the homes on Washington street where my grandfather John Fout raised acres of strawberry plants is no longer a field. The property along the railroad is mowed, groomed and lined with trees.

Wind turbines stretch toward Dola — *According to fellow alumni Tony Good, who still farms the area. All electric generated here moved to New Jersey and Delaware.*

Field Across from the Homeplace — *The field across from the Homeplace is still a field along the railroad track. The wind turbine in the distance is the only thing new. The mulberry tree on the corner is gone.*

Neighbor Jordons home — *Our neighbors the Jordons still live in this home on the corner*

My sister’s home — This house on Walnut Street was once owned by my sister Linda. A brouhaha started on this long porch in my presence that has lasted till this day. My brother Mike and sister Linda haven’t spoken to one another in more than a decade.

Fiftieth Hardin Northern Class Reunion

I would learn more about the town later that night at my Hardin Northern High School 50th Class Reunion. I learned many of my 47 classmates still lived in around the county. I got there earlier than any of the others. I straightened out the ‘Welcome Class of 71’ sign that had been wind blown off the fence at the entrance and was waving like a flag. I wandered about the property on the outside. All unfamiliar. The gravel playground where a rocket shaped monkey bars stood was all paved over. Tracks, sports fields all about me where rows of corn once stood.

*Fastened back on the fence, a banner greets alumni entering the parking lot.*

Hardin Northern School — *The Hardin Northern school bears no resemblance to its former self. It is a sprawling behemoth.*

Playground is gone — Asphalt replaces the gravel playground and former gravel parking lot.

New School Front — *New school front hides a new SECOND gymnasium inside.*

Many of those arriving I recognized as I sat in my vehicle. I knew them from Facebook or from friends. Some looked familiar, just older. Others would floor me completely as I could not imagine that these were people I spent twelve years with in this very building fifty years earlier.

Class Photo in 1971 — 50 year photo. Taken on the old rocket shaped monkey bars, no longer around. That is me at the top in the white long sleeve turtle neck sweater. The only face of us not visible in the lower left is the girl who has her back turned to the camera: Lynette Bushong. No way modern education would allow children to climb on a metal device like this.

There were a dozen people whose images in the room were forever stamped with the familiar. There was a table in the cafeteria which held the senior photos of those who had passed. 1971 Alumni deceased include: Robert Curl, Robert Donley, Janine Fulton, Timothy Garman, Ronald Gerlach, Dan Minix, Mike Southward, Ruth Warmbrod. Many of these relatively recently. The exception being Mike Southward who died tragically shortly after graduation. Another student peer not on the table, because he was.not a graduate having quit school early in high school, was Daryl Lamb, who died in a train accident before all of us had graduated.

Memorial Table — *A memorial table was put up for those who passed before our 50th class anniversary.*

Of those not in attendance, we had group prayer for Bob Bash, whom had recently successfully beat cancer and now was suffering from severe pneumonia in an era of a respiratory virus pandemic. Certainly he could not attend.

Only 17 of us signed the register. In alphabetical order they were: Steve Baertche, Patty (Ward) Dysart, Max Garmon, Tony Good, Cheryl (Goddard) Good, Karen (Pees) Koehler, Sharon (Erwin) Lucas, Eldon Messenger, Joe Oman, Sharon (Frederick) Purdy, Barbara (Lenhart) Roberts, Fred Rush, Pam (Webb) Spangler, Gary Lee Stuber, Wayne VanSchoik, Jeff Wilson and Starla (Titus) West. Other alumni did not sign. However two teachers attended: James Steele and Bob McBride, as well as Principal Clay. Some spouses as well accompanied alumni.

*The tour included sections that in our time were part of the parking lot. However, the Elementary wing looked much the same as we remembered it.*

A young principal gave us a tour of the inside of the sprawling structure. Some sections, like the elementary hall, and the old gymnasium were familiar, other sections had not existed during our tenure in the school. The new office, the new basketball gym, practically any thing on the Dola side of the school which was a parking lot in our time. It was impressive.

The student body however was much smaller. Less than 300 students from kindergarten through grade 12. By comparison there were 47 of us 1971 graduates. We were told that the classes being smaller were more intimate, allowing all students, even struggling ones to succeed. Good. Something good.

*Catered food from Dunkirk’s finest included pulled pork and pulled chicken.*

School Cafeteria — *The school cafeteria never looked this great.*

Anniversary Cake — *Why not cake? Even if our school colors are Black and White.*

*Hosts for the event. Sharon, Karen and Fred Rush.*

We had a delicious dinner and dessert on tables that allowed us to group and/or mingle. The event this year hosted by fellow 1971 alumni Fred Rush with assistance by the former Frederick twins, Sharon and Karen, also ‘71 alumni. Other classmates who lived locally assisted as they could. We swapped stories, family photos, laughed, hugged, shook hand and took a ton of photos together.

*Eating or meandering, two of my favorite things.*

Classmates in 50th Anniversary Reunion — *At least 21 of us in attendance, and some spouses as well. That’s me in the back nearly obscured by Sharon (formerly Erwin) in the blue dress in the front.*

Classmate - Girls — *The 1971 Women Graduates*

Classmates - Guys — *The 1971 Men Graduates*

It was precious time I am glad we got to share. I am 68 years old. I don’t know how many more of these I could attend, certainly not in another 50 years. I am glad I got to be a part of this. Hopefully it will not be the last time I hear from my fellow classmates. We were still one of the few classes in our generation that were raised old school. Rural. With common traditional values about life, love, loyalty and American patriotism. Our stories vary, but few of our base values do. And we have passed these as we could onto a second and third generation. Which makes us all out of step with the current popular culture in our country. I hope my classmates know how much I appreciate them all for this.

A Second Mini-Stuber Family Reunion

Friday night, and Saturday night after the reunion I spent at by younger brother Robert’s house outside of Kenton. That sound’s strange. Always called him Bob. So I got to share two evenings in great conversation with Bob’s youngest son Jessie. He is such a card. He’s funny, witty and has an opinion on everything. Reminds me so much of Bob when he was younger although both of them wouldn’t be able to see it. Bob, disabled now, walks painfully and for the most part is quiet and sober, serious. Jessie is bold and verbal, bubbly and optimistic.

Yes. Optimistic. Jessie has been wheelchair bound for more than ten years. And for the longest time was defeated, a victim, who had no future. Then, maybe because of family, friends and much prayer, Jessie stopped being a victim. He suddenly seized life. He began improving his health as well as his attitude. Now he is on his way to, well, everywhere! I love this young man, my nephew. He has for the first time in many years a real future. Driving his own vehicle, living independently. Making a good life for himself and others.

Robert and family — Bob’s Family: Tammy on the Left and Bob on the right. Youngest son Jessie in the front. Son Justin in the center back, Son John next to Bob. John’s wife Ashley next to John. John’s kids from front to back: twins Jaxon and Lennox, Clair in the center and Olivia in the back. Justin’s Valerie was the only member missing from the family photo I took that day.

Discovered sister Linda was in Tennessee this weekend, tending to son Glenn’s daughter they thought had Covid. Turns out it was just strep throat infection. Youngest brother Joe had attended his only son Jason’s wedding in Virginia. Congratulations Jason. So I was able to make contact with my only other sibling Mike, who agreed to meet at noon on Sunday at Bob’s house. He ran an hour late. But meantime Tamara, er Tammy, turned lunch into a feast with Turkey and more. And along with the feast came other son’s Justin and John with family in tow. Was a great time for all. Mike’s arrival was stunning to say the least. And familiar being that Bob lives in the cornfields only miles from the heart of Amish country in Ohio. You would have mistaken him for one. I certainly did.

Mini-Stuber Reunion — *Three Stuber siblings of six. Left to right: Gary (me), Robert and Mike.*

Hated to leave but my home was calling. Joyce was waiting for me. And while granddaughters Akira and Chloe were keeping her company this weekend, I missed her as much as she missed me. So we promised each other we would try to convene a Stuber Reunion sometime in the summer of 2022. May God in his mercy keep us all alive and well to make such an appointment. No dates or places have yet been established.

Lost photo — *I have never seen this senior candid photo of me printed in our yearbook. Enjoy.*

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Top 10 Reasons Why Real Christians MUST Faithfully Attend Church

July 12, 2017Faith, Life, Top 10 Lists, UncategorizedChurch attendance, FaithGary Stuber

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Let’s work backwards from the least to the most important.

But first this disclaimer: there are not just 10 reasons. This is but the tip of a great big ice burg hiding away from the secular world.

10. Join the club

Christ is the only Son of God, but He was not alone. He was not the Lone Ranger. He surrounded Himself with not just twelve apostles but literally hundreds of disciples. He positioned himself to speak to thousands at a time. And made sure the inner circle learned and remembered everything important. Christ first created the word “Church.” He said it would be built upon His foundation. The Apostle Paul further explained that the church was ‘people’ connected to one another like bricks. In another place he likened church to a body with people representing various members and parts. One whole; many members. Christ was not separate from it. He was the head. So, let’s say for argument sake, as a fellow Christian that you are a pinky finger on the right hand. Are you of any use to Christ, to God, if you are lying on the ground in the backyard, while the other hand is wrapping a bandage on the wound where you should be? God never compares us to bees where unthinking hive creatures are manipulated by a queen to go out and accomplish various predetermined tasks. The queen bee does not love her workers and expects that many will simply die off and never return. Your God created you with love, loves you still, and allows you free will to make your own choices. But you are a finger not a bee. But you are of no use to Him separated from his body. You’d not be a Christian member. You’d be a dead used-to-be finger of God.

9. One big happy family

Remember the Sabbath and to keep it Holy. That is the 3rd Commandment. One day a week set aside to rest and reflect on Him. But was this just for HIM? Or was the day set aside also for you? We know from both the old and new testaments that it was not done alone. First families and then congregations gathered together to share this rest and reflection. After all this was a God who created families because it is not good that man should be alone. As men began to share worship, He began to give them direction and comfort through His priests and prophets. The modern day equivalent of the prophet today is the pastor, preacher and evangelist that prepares and then delivers God’s word to us that edifies, encourages or convicts. Messages that stir or bring to remembrance our Lord and Savior. Why do we need this?

8. Spiritual checkup

While as Christians we are never to compare ourselves one to another. We are asked to measure ourself in God’s mirror: His commandments. Seeing our shortcoming there we seek salvation first, and after salvation, restoration of fellowship when our sins separate us. Our separation from other Christians can widen that gulf or worse: lead us into a false sense that we can be Christian ‘our way’ and often without having to face other Christians. Then, like the body with a member missing, how does a missing finger touch a brow? Christians need other Christians to comfort or be comforted. To chasten or to edify. To bless or be blessed. He uses our hands and hearts and the hands and hearts of others in our local church as HIS hands. We touch one another, being one body.

7. Safety in numbers

Animals all gather together in the presence of a predator. We call them herds. And while predators do kill animas out of herds, think how many animals would be vulnerable if they travelled alone. Even lions, tigers and bears don’t go it alone. Why wouldn’t you ally your self with people of like interest? Especially in a world where old fashioned ideas like love, fidelity, forgiveness and family seem to be at odds with the culture. The first ‘church’ at Christ’s resurrection all worshiped of ‘one accord’ and with that kind of love and like-mindedness accomplished many, many miracles. God is still in the miracle business for anyone still willing to gather in His name in one accord.

6. Safety in understanding

Cults are created by the absence of the daily-checked but non-evolving, forever settled written word of God. Agnostics, doubters and atheists are more often created by unenlightened readers of scripture without the Holy Spirit trying to discern spiritual things. Churches have been splitting for centuries over slights, or evolving mistranslations. Some more liberal churches use cultural mores no longer even preaching from the inspired word of God. A good bible-believing, whole word preaching church is a Christian’s only defense for keeping his own spirit and those of his family clean from the influences of this world.

5. Faith is contagious by contact

Many children of the sixties, who stopped reading bible stories or praying when these things were taken out of public schools, never sent their own children to church. We have four and five generations now removed from God. If you are a Christian with children who does not attend church you are showing them just how unimportant Christ is in your life. I can look back to a time before I was a Christian and remember sitting in a pew with my father and mother. I remembered the seriousness, the occasional furrowed brow, even a few tears. These are as vivid to me today as the moment I saw them. Even before I accepted Christ in my life I KNEW there was a real God. I witnessed Him served. Why should your children ever bow before a God you won’t even leave the house once a week to go hear about. Why would they want too? He will be as real to them as Santa and the Easter bunny. And they did go see them once a year until they knew they weren’t real either.

4. Peace that passes all understanding and a dozen more almost unbelievable benefits.

Those stay-at-home Christians who rarely, if ever attend church, don’t even know what it is they are missing. Mostly because they find it hard to believe. They are saved. Lately they wonder about that too. They live defeated lives. Wondering, worrying, hoping, doubting, fighting, crying and pleading with no power behind their prayers. They see faithful attending worshipers and wonder why they can’t get that peace that happiness they see. They wonder if it is an act, or worse, a delusion. How can anyone be that patient, that joyful that trusting that God has everything in control? They’ve gone a couple times, suffered through. How many times does it take? Then. Like a sudden summer rain, or a sheet ice wall suddenly crashing down, it happens. The eyes see. The heart opens. Things that seemed non-existent are now daily mini-miracles. Faith builds upon faith. Why wasn’t I living like this before? Abundantly. My cup running over.

3. Peter, Paul and all the apostles, and past prophets say so.

Forsaking not the assembly of one another. And the more so as THAT day approaches. Yes. That day. The day when everything is done. For some that was yesterday. For some tomorrow. And a few of us Christians will be here when Christ raptures his church away. Every major and minor prophet and every writer of the New Testament has suggested more than a ‘casual’ assembling of the congregation during our brief lifetime. Don’t treat their word casually.

2. Jesus says so.

If Christ says so, do we actually need more reasons than this? And He did spell it out a number of times. But the number one reason is:

1. God says so. (Commandments 1, 2 and especially #3)

God not only says this many, many times, He speaks this through His prophets, His patriarchs, His priests, His apostles and through His only begotten Son. Given the gravity of all of this: if you really ARE His, shouldn’t you absolutely be obeying His instruction to be in church?

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Before We Go Back to the Old Health Care System; Let’s Fix It First

July 12, 2017Life, UncategorizedDHHR, Health Care Legislation, National Health Care Policy, Prior Existing ConditionsGary Stuber

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First a word to my fellow Christian Conservatives:

Before you call me a liberal or socialist, read carefully through this list then suggest better ways to make effective use of private resources and still stop the expansion of taxpayer debt. We need to do things differently. The ‘Old Way’ is like the definition of insanity: Doing the same old things but expecting better results

Why DHHS cannot go back to the way things were before Obamacare: the ‘old way’ things were done needs fixed

While we all know what a disaster Obamacare is, back when it was being considered, I was proposing legislation that would fix the flaws in the old way of doing things. At the time West Virginia’s two Senators were both Democrats pushing Obamacare and were not interested in the fixes I was proposing. Since Obamacare’s decline, interest has returned to the ‘old way’ which is very workable. But as I said in 2009, it needs some serious tweaks. Let’s look at some of these:

Working poor need to deduct medical insurance on Snap benefit eligibility

Years ago Snap was just called ‘Food Stamps’ and even the working poor were eligible for them. Eligibility and quantity was based on income, number of dependents and qualifying household expenses. Rightfully, things like rent or house payments were on this list. Car payments were not; that is an extravagant convenience. Home insurance and even basic phone service were eligible. But if there was one thing absent it was (and after 40 years still is) a deduction for medical insurance. Even serious and responsible working poor could see that buying home insurance and getting the deduction from their gross income got them more food for their family. But paying for medical insurance even at a discount rate from their employer was an expense that was not deductible and thus they often elected no coverage. In the 1970’s through the 1990’s this caused a great accumulated debt of medical cost for the poor, whom when they were sick or ill, went to the ER which had to, by law, treat them. Taxpayers were saddled with this debt. It could have been a fraction of this cost if the government had allowed this deduction to the working poor. This still needs to be fixed.

Working poor need 100% reimbursement on medical expenses on Federal Income tax lowering their adjusted gross income

The working poor don’t actually pay taxes. However most with children do get ‘Earned income credit’. This check gets them a small paltry to catch up on debts, fix needed transportation, or generally provides needed relief from poverty. And the working poor know more than any other class how to balance finances for survival. Even with insurance payments acting as deductibles for food stamp eligibility, the family has additional medical expenses through the year: deductibles, co-payments, medicine and more. We could continue to let these accumulate as unpaid debt from a class of people that cannot afford them. Or we can let them be paid throughout the year and that money be ‘reimbursed’ to them as a 100% add-on to their ‘Earned Income.’ Yes, the government is still picking up the check on these for the working poor but the debt hasn’t been allowed to accumulate and thus rise through the year with interest and penalties. It also lets the responsible worker feel better about paying these debts as they happen knowing he will be reimbursed come ‘tax time.’ Anything less than 100% reimbursement defeats the cause as it simply would be allowed to accumulate as public debt. Another incentive would be to allow those medical costs and co-pays in arrears at ‘tax time’ to be paid after the first of the year but before ‘Earned Income’ is calculated and reimbursed. Thus hospitals and clinics benefit from late payers.

Anyone making less than $150,000 dollars must get 100% deduction on out-of-pocket medical expenses

For 40 years I have filed my own taxes. But in 2002 when my wife was ineligible for medical insurance (prior existing conditions – more on this later), I accumulated more than 10,000 in medical expenses for her for the year. ($900 a month in medicine and four $1,000 MRI alone). This that year was more than one-third if my $28,000 gross income. So naturally, I assumed this would merit me a big deduction at tax time. Wrong. First: the deduction is calculated by multiplying the expense ($10,000) by 0.07 percent. That $700 sounds good. But then, that is not the deduction. You subtract that $700 from the Standard Deduction (which that year was $7,000 for two). The deduction is equal to any difference above the $7000 standard deduction). It quickly appears that only those making over $100,000 can break even with the standard deduction. While those like me that year can barely meet bills or buy food. Anyone under the $100,000 gross threshold should get at least 50% deductible write-off if not the entire out-of-pocket expense for which they have proper receipts.

Welfare recipients need to have spend-down thresholds eliminated on catastrophic events

Here is a real example: Michele (not her real name) had an accident and was air-lifted to a remote hospital. A working poor woman who had recently changed jobs she was without insurance. Her medical bill upon her release 15 days later was $38,000. Because she had a husband and a child, DHHR said they could pick up the bill if she could reach the spend down limit in three months. Her limit: $42,000. They would NOT pay the bill if she did not reach that debt. She had three months for her and the other members of her family to run up another $4,000 in medical bills. You bet they did. This was one family. Multiply this by millions in this boat. Is it any wonder the past four decades we have racked up billions in Medicare debt? How ridiculous this is. Instead of paying medical bills as they stand we were having families run up additional debt intentionally. We need to fix this.

For all classes ‘prior existing’ rules must be returned to pre-1998 status (24-month ineligibility)

In 1998 Republicans made some badly needed reforms to the Welfare system. But one change was catastrophic. They let insurers talk them into eliminating the ‘prior existing conditions’ clause. At that time, insurers that provided employee insurance policies could not turn down anyone if they paid into the system for 24-months before beginning coverage. This 24-month buffer was to offset possible future charges. What was unexpected is that all insurance companies adopted this policy and used it to deny coverage to people that had even ‘unrepeatable’ risks. Millions of people were thrown off medical coverage and many of them ended up on government doles, expanding our debt.

Separate ‘catastrophic illness’ rider must be available to all (DHHS 100%, $ difference covered if necessary) and an arrangement can’t be negotiated by insurance companies with Congress

For those with prior existing conditions, and certainly those facing catastrophic illness or recovery from life-threatening accidents specialized catastrophic care should be made available at minimal or no cost. If there is one argument for government paid medical coverage it is this. Careers end, people lose homes, families are devastated. America is bigger than this.

Other thoughts: Insurance companies must:

Not discharge covered individuals when limits have been reached.

Not refuse coverage for individuals based on ‘prior existing illnesses’ for coverage other than those conditions.

Meet varying state laws if allowed to cross state lines for coverage.

Be able to adjust ‘minimum’ packages (state compliant) similar to what auto coverage does for customers who can’t afford or need premium policies.

Private policy is the best policy

America works best under its Founding Christian principles including Capitalism. Where possible free market principles must reign supreme. But as you can see, the socialistic policies of Obamacare did not work. Nor did the system as it previously existed. But by tweaking the previous system so that we don’t fall into the same financial pratfalls, nor let the public debt run out of control, America can get this done.

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Penpal to Papaw: A Valentine Story

February 4, 2016Faith, Family History, LifeAnniversary, Okinawa, Penpals, Valentine's DayGary Stuber

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This was written years ago and edited early in 2022. On December 10 of 2022 after a seven month struggle with an unusually rare illness, Joyce passed away. This coming Valentines Day would have been our 50th wedding anniversary in our 50 year journey together.

Perhaps, The World’s Greatest Valentine Story

Proverbs says the right words spoken at the right time is as beautiful as silver apples set in a golden frame. So I’m going to share the best silver I have: fifth years ago this Valentine’s Day I married my best friend who had also been my penpal. We knew early on we would probably never own a new car or build a new house as everything we had was funneled toward building a family.

House purchase in 1978 — Elkhurst home purchased in 1978

Work is hard when all you really have is a high school diploma, an honorable discharge and a couple of kids before you can find that job that keeps you longer than six months.

But Joyce and I built a family and cobbled together a house out of a camp we bought from Maulita Pierson on the edge of the Elk River in Elkhurst in Clay County, West Virginia. Our family has been taunted, tested, even broken a time or two in the forty-eight years since we first became wedding valentines. But as I write from the home we own, bills all paid, six children, their spouses, twenty-three grandchildren and five great grandchildren sleeping in their happy homes some within minutes of us, with my arm over my best friend and helpmeet I am as blessed as a man gets in this world and in the next.

It Started with a Comic Book

In defense of romance, love and marriage in 1969 while still a teenager I wrote a scathing letter to Marvel Comics for one of their writers’ attacks on love. It was published in the letters pages of Captain America #126.

I got more than 300 letters (because they published my address) mostly from girls my age who thought I was a modern knight. I got a letter from Jon Cheek from Loveland, Ohio who, also a teen and a comic reader wanted to write as a pen pal. He was corresponding with as many as 600 at the time (kind of like Facebook but by snail mail). After a year or so in one of his letters he mentioned a pen pal of his, a girl who lived only a state away from me who wanted to write to me.

I told him it was alright to send her my Dunkirk, Ohio address. About the time I said that I got my first letter from her (so he either anticipated my answer or was playing matchmaker.) She and I became penpals and wrote to each other for the next couple of years, as I went from high school to trade school to Marine Corp basic training.

She was my lifeline while I was stationed overseas. On my first arrival back in the states I arranged to meet her.

Four incredible months later, I married my penpal and best friend in the world on Valentine’s Day 1974.

Pen Pal Deja Vu

Before we leave the penpal thing let me tell you about an incredible coincidence that was related to me as I became engaged to mine.

My father was a corporal in the U.S Army in Korea during the Korean Conflict. Actually he was Sargent a number of times, but his life style and attitude kept him perpetually as an NCO. He was soldier, military police, guard, mess cook and more during his eight years in the service. He had enlisted at 16 and grew up in the Army. While he was overseas he met and married a beautiful oriental woman, married her and had a young child. During a war assignment onboard a ship, a sunami hit the island where his wife’s village rested, as well as his own base of operations. Everything was wiped out. He never kept photos of this, but years later I found a 35mm roll of negatives that showed the tragedy. The land was flattened in mud clear out to the ocean horizon. Of the base, only a single Quonset hut was left, but rather than the half-cylinder corrugated building you’d expect, it was reduced to a shell, wrapped around a single remaining power pole like a leaning metal teepee. He never spoke of this. I would not know of the tragedy if my mother hadn’t told me.

She had a secret tragedy of her own. A teenager of the late forties, early fifties, she was drawn to the Hollywood bad guy types. She met a dropout gang leader of a motorcycle gang. While this might sound like scripted right out of Hollywood, this daughter of the respected town sherif deputy fell for the delinquent and found herself pregnant. Here’s where Hollywood veers off. She married him but not long after in a fit of rage, her husband, not Dad, beat her. And did so, so badly, she was left for dead, her unborn child – stillborn. He went to prison for life. She divorced him and fell into depression.

That’s when the magic happened. Her best friend was engaged to a man in the Army overseas. She told him about Wanda. She said Wanda could use some cheering up. Her fiancé likewise said there was a man here who lost a wife and child and it would be therapy for him if he could spend his time trying to cheer up another rather than concentrate on his own tragedy. Best part, they were both local. They were both born and raised in Hardin County, Ohio, mere miles from each other. He encouraged him to write Wanda from his new post on Okinawa, Japan. Wanda’s friend, like a devious matchmaker, told her about Leo’s tragedy and insisted she concentrate less on her own sorrows and try to bring some encouragement to him by writing him. For more than two years they were penpals, at times writing twice a week. They became best of friends before he came home to meet her.

Within the year they were married. A year after that, I came along. I would be the first of six children. His family, a good Catholic family, said he would be ex-communicated because he married a divorced woman.

His family insisted it wouldn’t last. So he became a Methodist, like she was. They made their marriage last their lifetime.

So when I came back from Okinawa and within the year, married my pen pal and best friend, my mom told me, the story I just related. She showed me a pile of letters they kept. It rivals our own.

Beautiful but No Bed of Roses

As most would expect, life is not easy. Everyone faces heartaches, disappointments and tragedies. For those raised in loving families and believe in an Almighty God, have learned that couples can make it past these things. Or, if they stumble can recover. That was our story. It might have different elements from other stories, but it resolved with familiarity: “with God’s help, they now live happily ever after.”

One More Unfinished Bit of Business

Remember Jon Cheek, Junior, the matchmaker who put us together? Well nearly eight years ago when I first wrote this story in this blog, I enlisted the readers help in finding Jon. Yes, I wanted to find Jon Cheek, Junior. Small world after all. A local tv station picked up the story and one of the station’s employees was also from Loveland, Ohio (outside Cincinnati) and was Facebook friends with Jon who had moved to Texas. Now, we are once again reunited. Thank you, Jon. This new decade and new year 2022 on Valentine’s Day we will be celebrating our 48th wedding anniversary and this never would have happened without Jon. This “Cupid” from Loveland united two of his pen pals (more than 400 miles apart) in 1971. I was born and raised in northwestern Ohio dairy country in Hardin County Ohio in a little community named Dunkirk. I was the oldest of six. All have left Hardin County. My parents are dead. But people I graduated with in Dunkirk would tell you in a heartbeat where I went. Joyce was a coal miner’s daughter in Maysel in Clay County, West Virginia. In no possible reality do we ever meet without Jon. Ours is an incredible romantic story that starts as penpals of Jon’s who are introduced to one another by mail (yes, generations before email or Facebook). We have lived all our years since 1974 in Clay County, moving into the community of Elkhurst in 1978. And to think this all started because I wrote a letter to Marvel Comics (published in Captain America #126 in 1969) defending traditional marriage. Back then Jon had no idea the legacy that he set in motion. We are grateful that something wonderful happened as a result of his accidental matchmaking.

Gary Lee Stuber
gary_stuber@yahoo.com

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Best Grandma, Ever

January 22, 2016Life, UncategorizedJoyce Kay Stuber, Leonora Stube, Orthello Fout, Sara Elizabeth JamesGary Stuber

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This was written years ago and edited early in 2022. On December 10 of 2022 after a seven month struggle with an unusually rare illness, Joyce passed away. This coming Valentines Day would have been our 49th wedding anniversary in our 50 year journey together.

Let us talk about grandmas

Let’s talk about grandmas. I was fortunate. I had four of them who shaped my life. My mom’s mom Orthello Fout; her mother grandma Riegle; my dad’s mom Leonora Stuber, and my grandfather Jonathan Fout’s mother Sara Elizabeth James.

Great Granny James outlived them all, passing away well over 112 years. She was a card, telling it like it was, a single working mother like Rosie the Riviter who rolled cigars for work and made bathtub gin when unemployed. She could see through all the bull crap.

Grandma Stuber was blind and crippled due to diabetes. She “saw” me by feeling my face with her soft wrinkled fingers. She was the first person to die in my life. I was six. It was traumatic for me as it was the first and only time I saw my father cry. He was named after her, as I was named after him, as one of my daughters was named after them.

Grandma Riegle kept chickens. I helped butcher 30 of them, shortly before she passed.

My favorite was Grandma Fout. My mom’s mom lived three doors down from me for the first six years of my life. Then she lived three blocks away for the rest of her life. This is the person I knew as grandma. I see her still in my daughter Leona. The long red outta control curly hair, the freckles that covered her body, the optimistic “let me do that. I can do it” attitude.

One grandma set the standard

Orthello baby sat us, and often just came over to pick us up (and sometimes mom) just to drive us everywhere. We fished at the quarry in Dunkirk, Ohio, off the Blanchard River or the banks of Lake St. Mary’s. Sometimes we’d go visiting Grandma Riegle, Aunt Pat, Viola, or others. Sometimes we’d go window shopping, or actual shopping at Goodwill in Kenton. We’d go strawberry picking down the railroad track. Sometimes we’d drive with no destination in mind. She was a big part of our life. She died when I was 10 in 1963. I still tear up when we sing old rugged cross in church because I learned to sing her favorite song while sitting on her lap. What can I say. I had some awesome grandmas.

One grandma exceeded the standard

Unfortunately, my wife, born Joyce Kay Brown, never knew her grandparents. They were all long dead before she was born. Many times I have felt so sorrowful for her missing out on this joy. She did get to know and love my granny James. But I am sorrowful no more. While she did get to see her parents become grandparents, it’s hardly the same. But with such little experience she has become the best of the best.

That’s right. Having seen six grandmas and four grandpas in action up til 1992, I can truly say that since that time when Joyce became a grandma she is truly the best I have known.

Latest granddaughter, Annabelle agrees. Mamaw is the best!

Excuse me: Mamaw. She would never be called grandma. Maybe it’s the sheer volume, having been mamaw to twenty-five grandchildren and seven great grandchildren. With experience like that you got to get good being grandma.

More likely however it is because she has a child’s attitude. Like my grandma Orthello, Joyce concentrates on the fun things to do with her grandkids. And sometimes they treat her more like a playmate than a parent (pseudo-mom). But she also taught them life skills like sewing, knitting and crocheting almost a lost old-school talent. She was fierce with anyone who might harm them and loved them with a gentle humor they have all embraced. And she taught them cleaning skills passed down from her own mother: when you clean, no half-measures everything in the room gets moved to sweep under or behind.

Another factor, which started with her own mother, is that she puts their interests first. No matter where she is, her eyes go to the thing that one of the grandchildren “would just love. We have to get this.” More often than not, we do.

It appears that Papaw’s Rule (“When we go in the store we don’t ask for anything, or, you’ll go to the car until I’m done.”) is meant to be overruled perpetually by Mamaw when she is with us.

While I always tell people that my grandchildren are my toys and that I am their favorite plaything: I know the truth. That is why kids go to “GRANDMA’s house,” and not “Grandpa’s house.” Although it is cool that he lives at Grandma’s house too. It’s the way of the world. I have no chance here.

I must admit, watching all of this with fascination, that my grandma Orthello was ALMOST this good. However, I will admit that Joyce is the best grandma (oh, excuse me) Best Mamaw, ever!

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America Should Resist Revisionist History

January 10, 2016Faith, Life, Politics, Pop CultureHistory, Revisionist History, Truth Justice and the American WayGary Stuber

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What’s wrong with revisionist history

Aside from the obvious moral dilemma that happens from out right distortion of established truth, there are other reasons to oppose revisionist history.

Let’s define what we mean

First let’s define what we are talking about. History as we usually define it means the linear passing of time established by a record of facts by persons or their contemporaries usually through witnessed observations often written or otherwise recorded along the line of the lifetime of those participants.

Can actual history be distorted? Yes. People lie, or simply ignore certain truth in their oral, written, audio, video or otherwise recorded timeline.

But I would argue, is it a lie, if EVERYONE in the time line acknowledges the events of that timeline regardless if facts are hidden or otherwise ever brought to light in any lifetime? Kind of like the old expression: if a tree fell in the woods and nobody heard it, did it make a noise? Most people might say it did (because in a world of natural science past observance says it does occur). However, we don’t know how it fell, or why. Or if it fell at all. Maybe it was pushed over by a great gust of wind, or pushed by a bear, or by too many raccoons hanging off one side. I would argue all of that is irrelevant. But revisionist historians try to “re-invent” history from known facts, by speculating on ‘irrelevant’ questions by interjecting speculative answers into the timeline based on their own thoughts, opinions or experiences.

Thus they will answer when the tree fell or was pushed and all the noises in the forest at the time. More, they will speculate on how it was first planted there and all the unseemly things that perhaps transpired upon it during its growth.

And while the story may seem natural, possible and maybe even probable; there are no facts. Except that MAYBE something similar happened to another tree somewhere else that was observed and seems like it COULD have happened to that tree too.

The problem with revisionist history is that often it is contrary to observed factual history. But, unfortunately it makes it into recent history and primary school books anyway. Some times by “adding” unverified facts. More often by just deleting known facts (or by “re-interpreting” them to fit revisionist beliefs).

Now that we have our definition of both history and revisionist history let’s look at the BIG problems behind revisionist history.

The BIG picture gets repainted.

The biggest problem I see is that the BIG picture changes. It’s not like painting in a new tree in the foreground of a previously painted nature scene (although that would be bad enough). It’s more like painting over a nature scene and turning it into a moon or other planetary landscape. By that I mean, if you ‘re-paint’ the life of one person, a domino effect occurred where other people in that lifeline are now cast in new roles and new motives are applied to everything in their surroundings. While speculation is fine, it should never alter the original big picture without absolute concrete facts to back it up. When one picture is totally repainted it changes the rest of the story in that book.

It’s not about you

Generally, this is behind revisionist history. Our current disillusionment, disappointments, bad experiences and attitude and temperament colors our world. We have a tendency to paint the past as we see the present. Even if our view of the present is distorted. It’s how we make sense of the world. Suddenly we see bravery as just selfish opportunity, self-sacrifice as a corruptive need of priorities. It couldn’t actually be bravery or self-sacrifice, that’s not the world we live in. We make the past about us. We make it ALL about us.

Change the past, change the future.

Smarter writers than I have theorized this. Verne. Wells. Asimov. Clarke. Spielberg. In their stories the protagonist tried to alter the past to prevent a horrible future. We don’t have any real world experience to test that theory. But if it were true, then could this corollary be true? If we ‘revision’ history does it explain a horrible present? But there is another principal at work here: those who fail to learn history are doomed to repeat it. If we revise history to the place where it is no longer real, we can’t learn necessary lessons. When we don’t know the difference between truth or conjecture how do we know what mistakes to avoid?

An all clean or an all dirty America

Our need to rationalize our beliefs sometimes make us want to scrub our version, sanitized to our perception of reality. More often than not, we fall into two opposing camps: a completely utopian America or a completely corrupt one. Thus our revisions of history must fit both our narrative and our perception. The real problem is: neither version is real.

Even atheists and agnostics could learn a good lesson from the Bible here. The Bible declares that all have sinned, none are good. Then the Bible ‘proves’ this by showing that every good man in the Bible made horrible mistakes, terrible crimes and failures. Every man. (Jesus was not a good man. He was a good God.) Then these ‘bad’ men, did impossibly good things when they turned to a good God who empowered them.
Now if this is true, then each of us have the power to great harm or great good depending upon how we are empowered. That means American history is filled with great good and great bad. If we scrub away the bad, we are doomed to repeat it, as we won’t learn the lessons those consequences teach us. If we ignore the good we lose the hope that those bright spots inspire. Instead of conjecture we should read, absorb and teach history the way it simply comes down to us: the good, the bad, the ugly. An acquaintance of mine used to say it this way: “Warts and all.” Then, neither us, nor your children or grandchildren will fall prey to ignorance. And, maybe, just maybe can be empowered for good.

If we are going to error, error for tradition

As I said when I first began this essay. People can lie. Maybe some of the history that has come down to us has some truth hidden away from our sight. It is still not right that we speculate on that nor look for other motives. We teach what we KNOW. If we do error, let us error on the side of hope. Not that we accept error, or untruth. But that we trust what has come down to us is what was meant to come down to us, purposefully, justly, maybe even divinely. Until, or unless more clarifying truth comes down to us in the natural course of our own history, let’s error on the side of what is, rather than what might be.

Do unto others

You’re no villain. Yet. I mean my grandfather was full of humor, loved a good practical joke. But he was no clown. He was deputy sheriff and coordinated a rescue in one of Ohio’s deadliest train wrecks. He was a serious, sober hard working man. But of what little was written of him during his lifetime, (some of the best funny moments) some of his great grandchildren thought he must have been a clown. You are no villain (although I’m reasonably sure you and I have made mistakes like the ‘good’ men previously noted in the bible). You might leave a great legacy and pass down noble works. But in only a handful of generations an inspired revisionist could turn all your good intentions on their ear with his explanation of the psychology of your motives. Your name could be passed down in the company of great villains. This is why we should not allow this in our lifetime. Let established fact be our witness in our lifetime, and let us hold that regard for those in our past. Hopefully a future generation will do so as well. Again, you are no villain. Yet.

Fiction or non-fiction

Seems like these days, the entertainment consumer doesn’t know a difference. NBC aired the series “The Bible” and continues a new series called “The Bible A.D”. With the Bible translated into more than a thousand versions and languages, you would think that the writers would only have to interject some occasional dialogue to present the greatest story ever told. But anyone who has watched theses shows and has even a simple ‘Sunday school’ understanding of the material has scratched their heads and said “What!!?!?” At any of the episodes. Going way beyond speculation and interjecting whole new narratives, most completely contrary to God’s written word. The defense is always, “it was added for its entertainment value. We were trying to add some drama.” (Or realism, or conflict, or add any other creative word that comes to mind) They will usually end with: “it’s basically the same story we just added to it.” Real Christians know the real story, and wince, or laugh, or turn the tv off. The problem is, the Biblically ignorant think they have been fed real scripture. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to correct professing believers who got their whole doctrine not from the Bible, but from a movie, TV series or TV commercial ad (remember the Orville Reddenbacher popcorn commercials of the woman at Heaven’s gate. “And what did you do in your lifetime to deserve getting into Heaven?” I’ll bet a few readers here don’t know the answer to that question is ‘nothing we have done deserves getting into Heaven’. Hint: it is a gift of God, and that not of ourselves lest any man should boast.) and this is what revisionist history does to our country: feed confusion, muddle motives, speculate ‘facts’, and distort the big picture. Worse. In three generations you can have three genuinely held yet oddly contradicting versions of the same historical ‘facts”, further widening the generation gap. I genuinely believe this is partially responsible for the widening disparities in this country presently in its views on politics, race, gender, and social history. Many, many ‘experts’ presenting widely diverse revisionist histories on the same events. Maybe in this case histories might be the wrong word; ‘opinions’ might be the better word. Opinions these days seem to carry as much weight as fact. As I said, much of our current generation can’t separate fiction from non-fiction nor history from ‘interpretation’ (opinion).

It’s just bad form

If no other argument stands, then let this one. We don’t let bullies run rough shod. We don’t let the loudest shout down the meek. We don’t base equality on race or wealth. If we let anyone, without provable facts, change the noble history of those before us, who cannot stand and defend themselves in the present we have allowed the bad guy his win. This is bad form. As a nation we are better than this.

Pass it along

Happy Birthday Bertha Elizabeth Brown

November 2, 2015Faith, LifeBertha Brown, Brown Family History, Faith, familyGary Stuber

Pass it along

On November 2nd of this year my mother-in-law Bertha Elizabeth Brown, had she lived, would be turning 86 years old. I miss her. I’m sure my wife misses her even more.

We’ve heard them. The crass jokes about the mother-in-law. I don’t participate. While I didn’t always agree 100% with everything my mother-in-law did, I loved her like I would my own mother. That was easy, she treated me like her son. She is gone now, and at the time, I couldn’t see what appears to me now: the resemblance to her youngest daughter, my wife, Joyce.

Welcome to the family

I was just Joyce’s pen pal when I dropped in to meet her that first week in November 1973. I didn’t know it at the time but two days before I met Bertha she turned 44. She was born in the same year as my father. When I met her it was with a smile. Her and her husband liked me from the moment I met them. They liked the idea that I loved their youngest daughter and treated her with respect: we had been pen pals for two years.

In fact that next morning her husband and oldest son would invite me to help them butcher a hog, an event that would involve the whole family and end that second night in a family meal. Since that day, they treated me as if I were already part of the family.

Part of the Blackfoot tribe

If there is any American Indian in my mother-in-law it is remote. But she and my wife do share one trait: going barefoot winter and summer. My mother-in-law taught my wife to use her toes like fingers. Not only can she pick up marbles and coins. She can pinch hard enough with her toes to leave a bruise. They both wore callouses on their feet which seemed always black with usage. Not that they kept dirty feet, but going without shoes, you pick up dirt all day.

Joyce and her sister, her Aunt and three cousins all Sunday dressed. Can you spot Joyce, Bertha's youngest. (Hint: the child on the far right isn't wearing shoes) — Joyce and her sister, her Aunt and three cousins all Sunday dressed. Can you spot Joyce, Bertha’s youngest. (Hint: the child on the far right isn’t wearing shoes)

All of the photos I have of my wife as a child are without shoes, even when other children in the family wore shoes. The only photo I ever saw of my mother-in-law as a teen she was barefoot sitting on the hood of a truck. Since I came into her life when her daughter was a teen I have only seen her wear shoes (and some times these were flip flops) when she had to go to the doctor.

I’ll be alright

Another thing my mother-in-law, Bertha Brown, shared with my wife was her ability to be content in what ever state she found herself. That is not the same as saying she “settled” for whatever she got. She expected much. She just didn’t “fret or regret” if her expectations didn’t always meet her desires. In fact, I always thought she was too casual about some important things. A funny story I always tell is what would happen when she was sick. She went to the doctor frequently. Unless she was really sick. And if the effort to wash her feet and put on shoes seemed too much of an effort for her, she would say: “I’m too sick to go to the doctor.” Ironic. Yet, I have heard this a few times these past few years from her daughter. “I’ll be alright, she’d say. She wasn’t, but she would try to convince you she is.

The kids come first

If there was one area I strongly disagreed with Bertha, this was probably it. Maybe it’s a motherly thing. Maybe it’s a West Virginia thing as we tend to be clannish. In fact, I am a West Virginia resident because Joyce insisted that to marry her I would have to live close to her mom. These two women put the needs, desires and wants of their children over themselves (and their husbands). I might even observe that this goes down to grandchildren as well. Men have their place in the family; and an important one. But children, without the resources that their fathers have, need extra protection, attention and support that force mothers into the role of advocate. This can be hard when father’s expect discipline and mothers expect mercy. It is also hard when on birthdays and holidays, wives will accept no gifts of personal nature they can’t share equally among their children (or outright instantly re-gift to the children). These husbands must learn, giving generously to their children IS giving their wives what they desire most. This is a life-long, multi-generational commitment.

A funny thing happened on the way to eternity

Another thing I see in my wife came from her mother: her wit and her humor. Neither of them completed high school and all of their life labored under the illusion that they aren’t “smart” as others. Nothing could be further from the truth. Noting escapes their observation, and they were brutal with their wit, sometimes expressing itself as sarcasm, sometimes as irony or expressed as puns. This is not capable among morons or dim-wits but requires not only keen observation, mastery of language but creativity in its use. She was a very funny woman who brightened the life of those around her. She passed this on to her youngest daughter.

Graduate of the school of mountain engineering

Apparently Bertha came from a long-line of ‘make-doers’ that didn’t believe in honey-do lists. This too she passed on to her daughter who after her GED, graduated from the Bertha Brown school of mountain engineering. This is also why every West Virginia tool box contains duct tape, crazy glue, coat-hanger wire and ‘shootin’ wire.’ Other resources include cardboard, furring strips, wooden pallets, used nails, tacks and various pieces of plastic (black, clear) or blue tarp. With these resources, porches have been built and then converted to rooms and much, much more. Without the knowledge, consult or help of husbands who were away at work. They don’t just build rooms and furniture: they invent tools and completely new inventions that in a couple of years become indispensable constructs of convenience (sometimes needed by grown children who can’t live without them at their own places). Funny. If we were a family who wrote wills I could see some of these things contested by multiple multi-generation inheritors. I often wondered if this need to build is a ‘nesting’ instinct. And if it was, why the perpetual need to move furniture around? That would seem counter-effective and confusing among ‘nestlings.’ Unless it too is a perpetual need to either create or re-create. This too Joyce got from her mother.

From bread baker to bread winner

Bertha baked bread for every meal. Pan bread. No white sliced bread for this family. Not for family meals anyway. When she was young before marriage and children she had worked. Hard work without a high school education. She told a tale of getting her driver’s license using one of Bill Pearson’s log trucks. (Yes. She even parallel parked it). That was back when she was Bertha Bishop and one of the Bishop girls at Maysel. But she hadn’t worked since early in her marriage when her and her husband moved briefly to Buffalo, New York and worked the farming fields up there in the early 1960’s when the mines were closed. That was brief and they soon relocated back in Clay County, West Virginia where Jim took a job at the Wards coal mines at Elkhurst until they closed. He would spend nearly the next twenty years mining at Valley Camp Coal mines in Kanawha County as Bertha raised five children in their Blue Knob Road, Maysel, West Virginia home. But as her coal miner husband’s health began to decline, she began to take on more chores. In fact, his lung would collapse, and he would have surgery both on his lung and liver. He would never work in the mines again. While waiting on Black Lung Income that woukd take a long time to come, Bertha became breadwinner for the family. She took on a paper route for the state’s largest daily newspaper that would take her on a hundred mile daily round trip every day of the week. It was a family business. Her oldest son helped, my wife helped. Sometimes her other children helped as well.

After an auto accident left her mother with a broken leg, Joyce would take over the route for her for good until another accident several years later would force Joyce to give it up as well. Even as Bertha’s own health began to decline, she continued to head her household, even being full time mother to two of her own grandchildren and one of her great grandchildren. She always put the needs of others over her own.

The greatest thing a friend can do

If there was one quality that my mother-in-law exuded more than any other it was family loyalty. As I said, she taught my wife to put kids first. She would not eat the last bite or take the last portion of anything. Sometimes she would not eat till everyone else at the table left with their fill; just in case she might incidentally eat something someone else needed. She was absolutely loyal to all she loved. She kept everyone’s secrets, good or bad; even from each other. She loved all of her family all of the time. She took the good, the bad, the worse and hid it in her heart; all of it like precious jewels locked away as a treasure. Sometimes I wonder if that was what shortened her life. I think now that we all should have carried more of her burdens and let her carry less of ours. Her disabled husband out lived her. Jesus said the greatest thing a friend could do was to lay down their life for their friends. By that measure we were more than sons, daughters, husband or grandchildren. We were her friends.

I will see her again

She was a saved woman, and thanks in great part to the efforts of my oldest daughter, so was her husband before his death. So I know I will join them someday in Heaven with my own parents. But on this, what would have been Bertha Brown’s 86th birthday, I want to say that she is still alive and well in her youngest daughter, Joyce Stuber, who continues to be more like her mother every day. Happy Birthday Bertha.

Pass it along

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Happy Birthday Bertha Elizabeth Brown