Articles, obituaries, classified ads and the calendar of events listed on the blog over the last two weeks have meen moved to their appropriate locations on the Calhoun Chronicle web site at www.calhounchronicle.com.
The exception is the two installments of Off The Cuff, which were reprints already stored in our archives. They will remain here as blog entries as well.
Headlines for the week will be updated with next week’s issue.
Lisa Minney is in Virginia on family business. This column was originally published in The Calhoun Chronicle in 2004.
Whenever I am near the ocean, winter or summer, I make a point to go to the beach and stand at the water’s edge with my arms wide open to the power of the surging waves. I scan the skyline and the view of miles and miles of water, then close my eyes just to listen and make note of the ocean’s message.
The ocean laughs at me like a stranger, a powerful motion that could wash me away. The ocean is like a foreign force.
I will not get to visit the ocean this summer, but the last two weekends I have been in Pocahontas County, where the mountain ranges never end.
Just as I stand with open arms at the ocean, I stood last week atop a mountain gazing across forested miles with my arms open. I closed my eyes to listen to the message of the mountains. The mountain winds whipped my hair, but unlike ocean winds, there was no taste or smell of salt. Mountain winds are rich with the smell of earth and trees, sprinkled with the scent of wildflowers and pine.
The ocean makes me feel small and trivial, but the mountains, as huge as they are, make the world seem smaller, and embrace you as family. The ocean washes sand from beneath your feet, but the mountains lift you up, into the clouds.
The ocean may be a stranger, but the mountains are home. When I visit the ocean, I feel flushed clean by the winds, sanitized by the salty breezes, washed of worries and troubles. The ocean makes life seem unimportant, trivial next to its power.
The mountains seemed not only to embrace me, but also the troubles and milestones of my life. The ocean knows very little about struggle, because it is such an overwhelming power, but the mountains know of struggle, of rape and plunder, of fire and flood, of erosion and abuse.
The ocean laughs at our problems, but the mountains understand.
I spent the last weekend in July with my girl friends atop Woodrow Mountain. We sang and laughed and told stories. The ocean would have swallowed up our sounds, drowned them out with its own roar, but the mountains echoed our joys through the valleys.
The first weekend in August, Frank and I visited Snowshoe for the W.Va. Press Association banquet, and we stood on the balcony, high above the people. We whispered our accomplishments and successes to the mountain winds, which kept our secrets high above all others and carried them to the sky.
The oceans would have washed them away, but the mountain pulled our whispers into its realm.
There were moments when I felt I could reach out and touch heaven. There were moments when I thought, perhaps, the mountains peaked into heaven itself and I was already there as well.
The ocean may have the power to wash away signs of human progress and living, but the ocean still ebbs and flows with the tide. The mountains don’t have the active power of the ocean, but do have the sturdiness to stand in spite of all that happens. Scarred, stripped and undermined, the mountains still stand.
The fluid ocean says, “I can conquer you,” but the scarred mountains say, “Do what you will, I will still stand.”
I have often longed for the power of the ocean. I wanted to conquer others and conquer life. Now I realize that I also can take a lesson from the mountains–a lesson of unwaivering strength.
Lisa Minney is in Virginia on family business. This column was originally published in The Calhoun Chronicle in 2004.
When I was 22, while on a trip to Florida, a massive storm front came in from over the ocean, spreading lightning through dark clouds that spread from horizon to horizon. The sky was as black as night, and bolts of lightning fractured the darkness as they spread from the ocean sky to invade the land. The water was violent, and the frothy waves clawed desperately at the beach.
I strolled to the water’s edge to view the far-reaching ocean one last time. Drawn by the awesome power of the ocean storm, I spread my arms wide in the whipping wind, and closed my eyes. In my mind, I opened myself to the influence of the elements around me and tried to allow this amazing natural power filter through me.
Many times I have tried to explain the intensity of the moment. I have described how the hair on my arm stood on end, and the lashing, tumultuous wind that surrounded me, but I can never share the experience in words without limiting the boundless natural power to the small, tight meanings of our human language. When I am close to the ocean, I feel close to God.
In comparison to the storm’s power, I was no more consequential than a speck of sand. The ocean roared and the wind growled, and the storm thundered and bellowed. I was minuscule, a fleck of dust in the world. My worries, my dreams–all temporary and brief in a timeline that lasts forever and beyond. I was moved, and when the weight of my desires and worries left me, I felt lifted, and light. I swear to this day, my feet left the ground.
That moment has remained a vivid and inspiring memory for me for 14 years. I have returned to the beach several times since then, always taking a moment to stand at the ocean’s edge, and to feel her power and be humbled. Just as I have learned about the ocean on these visits, I have also learned about myself.
Fourteen years ago, I allowed the storm to laugh at my concerns about college, and waiting tables and rolling change to pay rent. Eight years ago, the ocean played with grief and regret I was carrying after a friend’s death. Six years ago, on vacation from my “good job,” the ocean scoffed at my lamentations about work, and tossed work related stresses to the wind like dandelion seeds. A little over a year ago, on our honeymoon, the ocean yawned at our celebrations, and simply caressed us with warm breezes as we walked hand in hand along her shore to collect sea shells.
This past week, I visited with the ocean again. In my mind, I like to think she remembered me.
“You again?”
“ Hello Ocean,” I said.
“Now what? I am busy you know.”
“Well, I never have enough money.”
“That again? We’ve been through this.”
“I know, but . . .”
“Where are your values? Do you need, or want?”
“I have what I need, so I guess I want.”
“Then you value the wrong things.” And the ocean sighed, drawing my wants away from me in the waves. “What else?”
“Well, I have several issues–all relating to politics.”
“Politics!” She laughed. “As pointless as money! Why do you humans choose to punish yourselves with these silly games?”
“We want to improve our community, our quality of life,” I said. “We want better things.”
“Want, want, want,” she said. “You want to change the world. The world would be just fine, if people had left it alone.” She continued, “if you want a better quality of life, you must be willing to strive for a life of quality. This does not require a change in the world, it requires a change in you. If you want more, you will always want more. If want improvement, improve yourself; then you will grow, and your life will grow, and you will have happiness, not just ‘more’.”
She sighed again, “It’s always the same thing with you, little person. Your wants become needs.”
I looked toward the skyline where the ocean meets the sky, thinking. “Wants and needs,” she whispered, and a frolicking wave trickled up on the sand to touch the toes of my shoes. “Change comes from within.”
I closed my eyes, and spread my arms wide, and let the message of the ocean swirl around me. I thought long and hard about the things I want, and how those things had overshadowed the needs in my life. As I meditated, “wants” separated from “needs” and were washed out to sea.
Outdoing others is a want. I only need to improve on myself. I let the ocean take that “want” from me.
Frustrations with political malfeasance, ignorance and manipulation? My need for patience forces me to want to slap some sense into some people, but I let go of that “want” which leaves more room for me to address my “need.” Patience will allow room for discussion, education, and learning.
When the wants were all gone, I was able to recognize my needs. I need my family. I need my health and exercise. I need to improve on patience, time management, and renew my faith. I need to work with others, and not just want them to work with me.
As a community we need a new town hall. We need to make sound decisions about the way we try to control the power of our river. We need to protect the rights of our children. We need elected officials who are willing to put aside personal wants in order to provide for the needs for the community. We need to work on ourselves to improve the way we live and grow together.
I enjoyed my visit with the ocean. In a few brief moments, I was able to prioritize and simplify my life so I can focus on my needs. I am also glad the visit came so close to the new year, when so many of us examine needs and wants.
I wish all of Calhoun could have visited the ocean with me. It is mentally refreshing to separate wants from needs, and let go of the wants that haunt us. As we set New Year goals for ourselves and our community, we need to remember that our community is made up of us. Improvement and growth in the community starts within each of us.
Willa S. Stump, 93, of Grantsville, died Monday, Feb. 19, 2007, at Worthington Manor Nursing Center, Parkersburg.
She was the daughter of the late Roy and Florence Ferrell Sturm. She was a 1933 graduate of Calhoun County High School and retired after working many years in the Calhoun County assessor’s office. She was a member of First Baptist Church, Grantsville, and American Legion Auxiliary for many years.
Surviving are three brothers, Carl Sturm of Millstone, Jess Sturm of Tempe, Ariz., and Chester Sturm of Ormond Beach, Fla.; one sister, Helen Cain of Kailua, Hi.; 17 nieces and nephews, 36 great nieces and nephews and 26 great-great-nieces and nephews.
She was preceded in death by her husband, Hatzel Stump, in 1980; two brothers, Cecil Sturm and Roy Sturm, Jr.; two sisters, Elsie and Ruth; and 1 neice.
Services will be held Thursday, 1 p.m., at Stump Funeral Home, Grantsville. Burial will be in Bethehem Cemetery, near Grantsville. Visitation will be held Thursday, 11 a.m. until services, at the funeral home.
