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A FATHER'S DAY TRIBUTE
From Caroline Myss
In a sense, I had two fathers, my own father, whom I loved dearly. And then I moved to Walpole, New Hampshire, in 1982, where I would meet the man who would become a second father to me, Ray Fenner. I spent my first year in Walpole living in an isolated New England cottage, adjusting to life in a village of 800 people. And it was quite an adjustment, having come from Chicago where my life included a steady diet of art gallery openings, weekly theater dates, and finding the best new restaurants in town. I had crashed and burned, socially speaking. Following this year of living in isolation and silence (no radio, no television, no computer - boo hoo), I needed to find another residence and fast. The chatter around the village was that a wonderful couple named Ray and Karol Fenner were renting part of their farm house and so I decided to check it out.
I arrived at Farenoughaway (correct spelling) Farm on a lovely autumn afternoon. Ray and Karol greeted me in front of their grand, old New England farmhouse. Karol informed me that it seemed the time was right for them to rent one side of their farmhouse, as all of their eight children were gone. They hadn't rented before and were not quite sure how this arrangement would work out, but she promised me that if it didn't work out, she would at least let me stay through the cold New England winter. That seemed fair to me - and so my life at Farenoughaway Farm began, a life that would last nine years.
Ray and Karol Fenner, along with their wonderful family, two horses, and their endearing golden retriever named, "Mom's Best Friend", became my second family. I grew to love them dearly, but through the years I developed an especially close relationship with Ray. Like his darling daughter, Ellen, who wrote the tribute to her father that follows this introduction of him, I could write a book about my years with Ray and the many conversations I had with this man. Let me just share a few memories to set the stage for the story you are about to read. Shortly after moving into Farenoughaway Farm, the postmaster in Walpole said to me in his thick New England accent, "I hear ya moved into the Fenna' place. That Ray Fenna', why he's the nicest man in Walpole. You wait and see."
That proved to be true time and time again.
Ray was a Congregationalist Minister who served every one - period. He served through his wisdom, through his strength, and through his humor. He was six feet, four inches tall and that alone gave him a commanding presence. But it was his soul that moved all who knew him.
Over the years, Ray and I developed our own routine. Most afternoons, for example, we would take a three mile walk to this particular tree that looked exactly like a stalk of broccoli - ergo, we called it the broccoli tree. Our dog, Friend, came with us, and eventually so did my cat, Mousetrap. We looked a lovely sight…the four of us…each afternoon, making that three-mile walk. Ray and I never ran out of subjects to discuss. Like my father, he had served in World War II, only he served in the European Theater. He was on a B-17, flying bombing missions over Germany. And he was in the Battle of the Bulge.
We talked endlessly about what makes human beings want to kill. What is that dark substance in us that compels us to destroy each other? Is this passion to kill so seductive that it is only after massive death that we rise out of the ashes to realize the value of life? And then…we forget the value of life and are once again drawn into battle. As a veteran of a world war and many battles, he had experiences that gave his opinions a backbone that the inexperienced lacked. And, unlike my father who would never discuss his battle experiences at Guadalcanal or any of the other battles he fought in the Pacific during World War II, Ray would talk about the war. I felt as if I was finally reaching into my own father's psyche by talking to him. He knew that and I knew that and so we discussed World War II endlessly. And I read more and more books on World War II, five, eight, ten a month for years and years and years - all an effort to understand my father and the effects of war on the soul of one man, my dad. What, if anything, can change this cycle of war? We discussed this endlessly on these long walks. We never came to a conclusion, probably because there is no conclusion to such a discussion. There is only endless speculation about human nature.
Our walks continued until they began to get shorter. Ray had a weak heart and gradually our walks became shorter and shorter. His heart was failing in bits and pieces. We all could see it; we all knew it. Meanwhile, I would travel here and there to workshops around the country and overseas and I always came home to find a dish full of chocolate chip batter in my refrigerator as I like the batter more than the cookies…he knew that. And of course, my wood stove was stoked and burning away during the cold New England days so that my part of the farm house was always warm upon my return - always the loving handiwork of my wonderful second father, Ray.
Ray was famous for his smoked, grilled turkey and when the family gathered at Farenoughaway Farm, for whatever reason, you could find Ray at the bar-b-que - and you could find the rest of us waiting for his masterpiece. We all love him so much and he loved us all back.
When times were difficult for me, and they did become that, I turned to Ray. In a very real way, he became my first spiritual director, though I never would have recognized that back in the 1980's. I needed his wisdom and endless capacity to understand human nature to maneuver through the challenges that I faced during those years in my life, including the death of my own father. When I think of Ray, which I do so very often, I am well aware of how much he influenced my understanding of the mystery of forgiveness - and forgiveness is a mystery. But for him, it was a lifestyle, a message to be shared.
I moved from Walpole, New Hampshire, in February1990. Ray passed away the following April. The entire town of Walpole went into mourning. Until his daughter, Ellen, wrote this tribute to her father, I had no idea why the message of forgiveness was so much a part of Ray's life's work. This was one story about his life he had somehow failed to tell me. I asked Ellen if I could share this story with others because it is Father's Day and it is a soldier's story - and somehow, given the fact that our nation is at war, this is a tribute that seems spiritually appropriate, even if the war Ray served in was World War II.
Let me close by saying, "Happy Father's Day to my real father and to my New England father Ray Fenner. You both gave me so much and I love you both still and more each day."
Your daughter, Caroline
Without hesitating, he flipped the rifle up with one hand and pulled the trigger. The dog simply dropped, the shot catching it cleanly between the eyes. The other dogs, three of them at least, bolted at the sound of the gun. He didn't need to check on the dog; he knew it was dead. His main concern was the young calf that had almost been prey to the feral pack.
Slogging his way through the mud of early spring in New Hampshire, the farmer made his way toward the shaken calf. Barely four days old, the little bull buried his head in the safest place he knew, near the hind leg of his mother, next to her udder. The calf eyed the farmer suspiciously, fuming harsh breaths and releasing a brassy bleat that nearly deafened the man. The intensity of the sound was assurance that the calf was unharmed.
As the farmer walked toward the dog, the adrenaline began to wear off and the memory of a time long ago when his reflexes had been called on in a similar, though very different situation began to emerge. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind.
Looking down at the mutt lying at his feet, its eyes still wide open with the shock of its sudden death, a sob pressed against his throat. This was not part of the boyhood fantasy he'd had about what a farmer's life was like. He gathered the dog up in his arms and carried it down the hill. It had probably once been someone's pet, but as with many dogs in farm country, it had likely been dropped off somewhere and left to fend for itself. One by one, these abandoned canines would find each other and form packs that would allow them to hunt more effectively. When they were unable to find wild animals, they would sometimes wander onto the farms.
When he was a boy growing up in the Midwest, Ray dreamed of having his own farm one day. On Sundays, his parents would pile him and his sister and four younger brothers into the car and drive out of the suburbs to see the sprawling cornfields, lush with stalks that grew higher than any of them could see over even when they stopped and took turns standing on the hood of the car. In time, many of the fields stood empty at the height of growing season. The Depression had devastated many of these farms, and the families could be seen sitting on their front porches resting on the Sabbath before starting another week of wondering how they would make it through. Ray's father had a good job that allowed their family to live comfortably, but these tours through the countryside showed him that there were many who couldn't.
Now, as he looked at the dead animal before him one more time before shoveling the pile of wet dirt onto it, he remembered the books he had read as a boy. Albert Terhune had written great stories of heroic dogs and the adventures they had. They had honor and compassion that seemed to surpass that of most humans. How could such an honorable being become so vicious? Again, the memory started to creep at the edges of his mind. This time he couldn't keep it away.
Toward the end of World War II, the Nazis had ravaged much of Europe but the allied forces were beginning to overpower them. Ray had left college where he was studying to be a doctor, and he and his younger brother, Norman, along with many of their friends, joined the war effort as it became clear that every able-bodied young man was needed. Norman went off to serve with the Navy in the Pacific. Ray had hoped to become an Army Air Corps pilot, but when it was discovered that he was color-blind, he was made a belly gunner and a photographer. From a tiny compartment in the exposed bottom of the plane, he would take pictures of the scarred European landscape below when it wasn't necessary to fire the guns. His assignment allowed him to fly 90 missions before he was transferred to the infantry in Germany where he could see up close the devastation.
The liberation of the concentration camps had begun and Ray and his fellow soldiers were sent in to help. Strangely, what he saw made him think of those Sunday drives through the Ohio countryside when he would sometimes see piles of young farm animals that had died. He knew it wasn't the same thing, but there was no other way for him to understand what he was seeing. Bodies upon human bodies lay in front of the camps and in trenches nearby. Those that were still alive wandered in a daze.
When they had done all they could to help the survivors, Ray and several other soldiers marched toward Belgium as the harshness of winter was coming to an end. The boots that had barely kept their feet from freezing were now being taken prisoner by great, sucking bogs of mud. They wrestled to free their boots, frustration turning from panicked anger to bouts of hysterical laughter that relieved some of the tension of their recent assignment.
Eventually they reached a sunny opening that seemed dryer. Weary and looking forward to rest and some food, they heard a branch snap nearby. Someone yelled "Get down!" and they fell just as shots rang out from behind the trees. Ray landed beside his buddy, a young private from Indiana. It took him a moment to realize that his friend had already been fatally shot in the neck. Enraged, he stood up and started firing aimlessly. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement and swung his rifle up and pulled the trigger. The helmet of the young Nazi soldier flew off, his rumpled blonde hair tumbling out as he fell backwards. There was yelling all around and what was left of the Nazi platoon began to retreat into the woods.
Ray lay shaking on the ground for a few moments. He had shot a man -- a man that had stood close enough for him to see the youthful face, the frightened eyes. Ray's head spun at the chaos of the scene. He rolled over and vomited.
When he could stand again, he looked across the clearing toward the soldier he had shot. The young man lay still, his arms and legs splayed, a neat bullet wound right in the middle of his forehead. His pale blue eyes stared sightlessly skyward. Ray's stomach heaved again but there was nothing left to expel. Slowly, he walked toward the man, a boy, really, and knelt down beside him. Tentatively, he reached for the soldier's hand, and jumped back when he felt how warm it was. He'd never thought of death as being warm. He reached for the young man's hand again and held it, fearing, but also wishing, that the soldier was not really dead and would suddenly grip his hand. Slowly, the hand cooled and Ray knew it was true. He had killed a man.
"Ray!" shouted a voice nearby. "Let's go!"
Shaking the scene out of his head, he reached inside the uniform of the Nazi soldier and found his dog tags. The name was Gerhardt Schmidt. He wouldn't forget that.
The somber group attended to the wounded and catalogued the dead. Three of their men had been killed. Many more of the Nazis had fallen, despite their advantage of surprise. They were exhausted, but none of them wanted to stay in this place, so they moved on. No one spoke a word as they mechanically trudged toward an unknown destination.
As night fell, they came upon a small village somewhere near the border of Germany and Belgium. The village hadn't been touched by the war yet. Lights in the windows of the tiny houses almost made it possible to believe that there was no war. But the dirty, ragged uniforms Ray and his fellow soldiers were wearing told the truth.
A man stood in a nearby doorway. Ray looked in his direction and the man waved. Ray hesitantly waved back. The man began walking toward the soldiers.
"May I offer you something to eat and drink?" he said with a heavy accent. The soldiers, hungry and exhausted gratefully accepted. Leaving their gear outside the door, they followed the man into the small house. The air inside was warm and smelled of freshly baked bread.
"Where are you coming from?" asked the man as he began offering them large chunks of bread. Hardly able to speak as they shoved the food into their mouths, one of the soldiers told him that they'd recently arrived in Germany and were headed toward Belgium. The man assured them that they had achieved their goal.
Ray exhaled his relief. Between the aromas of the cottage and the kindness of their host, he felt tears sting his eyes. He looked away and tried to blink them back as the man handed him a glass and began to fill it with wine. The man looked into Ray's face with compassion, and merely nodded as he moved on to the next soldier.
As he filled the last glass he said, "I have no room for you to stay here but there is a church next door where you might spend the night." Warm and sleepy from the bread and wine, the soldiers thanked the man for his hospitality. They picked up their gear and the man led them into the dark church. He lit candles but soon extinguished them as the soldiers collapsed on the pews and were almost instantly asleep.
Some time later, Ray groggily opened his eyes and looked across at a fellow soldier whose face was bathed in strange colors. Ray jerked his head up, thinking that something must be wrong, but as he looked over the back of the pew, he saw that the source of the odd sight was the morning sun shining through a stained glass window. None of the others seemed to be awake yet, and realizing he hadn't relieved himself for many hours, he went outside to look for a place to do so.
"Guten Morgen!" The man from last night called cheerily from next door as he swept his front steps. This morning he was wearing a black shirt with a white collar. Ray waved and called "Good morning!" as he ducked around the side of the church. When he emerged, he walked back toward the doorway and nearly choked. In the dark of the night before, he hadn't noticed the sign on the front of the church. "First Church of Christ, Reverend Gerhardt Schmidt". Surely it couldn't be the same family! There must be hundreds of Gerhardt Schmidts, maybe thousands! There are no coincidences, his mother had told him. In a panic, Ray started to back away behind the church.
"Young man, is everything all right?" the man called.
Ray couldn't answer. He tripped over a root and his legs went out from under him. The tears he'd previously been able to hold back came pouring out as he tried to crawl away. The man walked quickly toward him and kneeling down, took Ray's hand in his. "My son, what is it?"
The sobs heaved so hard Ray thought he'd be sick. "I think…I might have…. killed …your… son!" Ray turned away from the man, intent on getting up and running away as fast as he could, but the man's grip on his hand tightened. He pulled Ray toward him and wrapped him in his arms. Ray sobbed harder as the man rocked him slowly, the way his mother used to do when he was a boy.
The man laid his hand on Ray's head. "Hush now, hush… Why don't you come inside and I'll give you some breakfast." The thought of food made Ray's stomach turn but his energy to fight was gone, so he allowed the man to lead him into his home.
The man silently poured a cup of tea and placed it before Ray. A plate of sweet rolls sat on the table waiting for his comrades to rouse. The man poured himself a cup of tea and sat down next to him. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"
Ray took a deep breath to calm his nerves and began to recount the story. When he got to the part where he had shot the young German soldier, the man closed his eyes as he listened. Ray saw a glint of wetness in the corners of the man's eyes. The panic returned. "You must hate me!" Ray blurted out and buried his head in his hands.
The man opened his eyes and turned, taking both of Ray's hands in his. "Look at me, son." With great effort, Ray looked into the man's tear-stained face, the blur of his own tears distorting his vision. "You have done nothing wrong. You did exactly what you had to do at the time - defend your comrades from the enemy. It could as easily have been you who died, but it wasn't. That is the way of fate and the tragedy of war. It makes us do things that nothing else in the world could. You are to be commended for your willingness to put yourself in this position, for there is no choice more difficult nor more noble."
Ray's hands were now trembling so hard that he had to withdraw them from the man's. He wanted, needed, to say something but couldn't. Sensing Ray's dilemma, the man continued on.
"Let me tell you about my son." He stood up and refilled Ray's cup and then his own. On his way back, he stopped and picked something up from a nearby table and handed it to Ray. Recognizing the blond hair, the face that he had seen only in death, he hung his head and wept again. It was a picture of the man's son a few years earlier, kneeling down next to a large dog. "Young Gerhardt was a fine boy. He was tall and strong, not unlike you. Though your hair is so black, your blue eyes have the same intensity. I saw it when I looked at you last night. The pain in them conveyed what you have just told me. No man's eyes should ever have to look that way."
He took a deep breath and continued on. "Not long ago, my family and I lived in a small village in Germany. We had a farm with some chickens, pigs, and a cow. Gerhardt loved the farm. He tended all of the animals with great care. After his mother passed on, he and I managed to take care of ourselves, though not as well as she had. Gerhardt always felt great responsibility for me.
"Some time ago, when Herr Hitler's ideas began to seep into the minds of the German people, I decided we must move away from Germany. I could sense that very bad things were coming. We made it just in time, as it became much more difficult to do so after that. But as a young man, my son had already begun to believe the propaganda of the Nazis and aspired to return to Germany as soon as he was old enough to join the army. I begged him not to, but it was not my decision to make for him. His belief, perhaps like yours, was that his goals were noble, that he would be bringing honor to his people. I recently received a letter from him saying that he had begun to doubt his beliefs. Perhaps that was what distracted his attention when you met up with him. Maybe he knew that he would never be able to live with himself when he found out how he and so many others had been deceived."
Ray's voice returned. "But now your only son is dead because of me. Aren't you angry?"
"I am angry, indeed, but not with you -- especially not with you. I am furious that young men, God's beautiful children, are being used to carry out or defend against the misguided ideas of a madman. My son has lost his life, but you have lost a part of yourself that will be difficult to replace. Your task for the rest of your life will be to try to heal that part of yourself."
Voices in the distance interrupted the discussion. "My son, it is not my forgiveness that you need - it is your own."
Ray remained in Europe for many months after that and the war would end soon after his tour of duty was over, but something had begun that morning in Belgium. When he returned home he finished college and then applied to divinity school with aspirations of becoming a minister. Though he would never see Reverend Schmidt again, the lesson he learned stayed with him. In addition to recounting this story, his application essay read, "If I have the opportunity to offer and teach this kind of forgiveness, then my life will be worth living."
As the farmer placed the final shovel full of dirt over the dog, he patted it down and whispered for the thousandth time, "Please forgive me…."
