The Storyteller Who Dipped Snuff

Cora Lee Hale, abt. 1970

October 8, 2014

Dear Constant Readers,

This is the sixth installment in an ongoing series of posts from which I hope will form the first draft of a book.  The working title for this book is, "Confessions of a Second Grade Failure."  It is a coming-of-age memoir about growing up in Kingsport, Tennessee during the 1960s and early 1970s.

And don't forget - if you subscribe to receive my blog posts by email before October 15, you will automatically be registered in a contest to win a new Kindle reader from Amazon.  For more details about the contest and how to subscribe, please read this post.

Cheers,

Stephen

P.S. Even though I do proofread my work before publishing on this blog, occasionally a grammatical error or misspelling will elude my notice.  I do have a more objective proofreader, my wife, Lynn, but she usually proofs it after it has gone out to you, the reader.  When I finish a blog, I transfer what I have written into chapters kept in a text document.  These blog posts help shape what I will soon submit to the literary agent.  So, if you find grammatical errors or misspellings, feel free to share them with me so that I may correct them.  Right now I am writing to generate material and content for the book, so I am somewhat less attentive to the polishing process that goes into finished material.  Thanks for your understanding and your participation.

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Confessions of a Second Grade Failure

The Storyteller Who Dipped Snuff

My maternal grandmother was Cora Lee Hale. After the death of her husband, she lived with our family until her own death in 1971. As I child, I cannot remember a time when she was not present in my life. It was like having two mothers - one who gave actual birth to me and another who gave birth to my spirit.

When I remember my grandmother, Cora, the image that most immediately comes to mind is of her

Cora Hale and Stevie Rhodes

sitting in a green sofa chair in our living room near the fireplace. She has on her favorite blue print dress with knee-high stockings and comfortable low heel shoes. She is wearing a pair of dark, horn-rimmed glasses, though they do her little good - her eyesight failing as a result of advanced diabetes. Her gray hair is pulled back into a bun. She keeps a small tin can close by. It is filled with the brown power of Bruton’s Scotch Snuff, a tobacco that she frequently dips. And her black leather Bible, worn by years of reading, laying next to her on a small table.

Cora was a mountain woman from Appalachia. Her parents, Mickleberry Townsend and America Sparks, were from a long line of eastern Kentuckians who lived in the counties of Wolfe, Breathitt, Owsley and Estill. Cora herself was not born in Kentucky, but in Lawrence County, Missouri on July 19, 1886. Her extended family, along with many other Kentuckians, had migrated west in the early 1880s in the quest for new lands and new beginnings. But the Townsend family’s sojourn was brief. The West was not for them. The eastern hills beckoned them back home. By the 1890s, they were in Kentucky once more.

Mickleberry, Cora’s father, wore a long black beard and moustache above which were set a pair of

Mickleberry and America Townsend
with children

penetrating eyes. He was a farmer and a stove mill operator. America, her mother, raised their seven children and helped Mickleberry on the farm.

My grandmother was a natural storyteller. She loved to tell stories, especially about her childhood and adolescence in Kentucky. She and her younger sister, Lulie, were forever competing over the local boys. Mamaw said that whenever she would bring a boy home to court her, Lulie would just as quickly steal him away from her. Even so, being sisters was a stronger bond than any potential suitor - and besides, there were plenty of boys to go around.

Another story that Mamaw often told also involved her sister, Lulie. This was the story about the visitation of a spirit. She told me how her childhood best friend, a girl who lived the next farm over, became seriously ill - smallpox, if I remember correctly. Just before her illness, Cora and the girl had an awful argument. They ended up refusing to talk to each other. But as her friend’s illness grew progressively worse, she asked for Cora to come visit her so that they could make up. Cora admitted that, at that age, she had a stubborn streak and refused to go. She would make up with her friend when she was good and ready. Sadly, that time never came. The little girl died without the two of them reconciling. Cora was overwhelmed with grief, blaming herself for her friend’s death, berating herself for being so stubborn. Weeks and months went by before life seemed to return to normal, nevertheless the death of her dear friend continued to weigh on her.

One day, Cora was outside her house putting up laundry to dry in the sun. It was a bright, sunny day and no breeze was blowing. Suddenly, everything seemed to grow unnaturally still. Then Cora heard

something moving. It was the sound of her swing attached to a limb on a nearby tree. Slowly, Cora turned around to see why the swing was moving. It was then that Cora saw her - her best friend, the little girl who had died. She was sitting in the swing. Backwards and forwards the swing went with the little girl’s feet pumping in the air. She smiled at Cora, who was so startled that she dropped her basket of laundry. Cora was certain that this must be something that she was imagining. Her grief was surely causing her to see things that weren’t there.

Cora’s thoughts of self-doubt were interrupted by a scream from the kitchen. It was the sound of her sister, Lulie, who was at the sink washing dishes. She, too, had heard the swing and looked out the window, thinking that she would catch her older sister shirking her chores. But instead, she saw the dead girl, too. As soon as Lulie rushed out the kitchen door to get a better look, the apparition of the little girl quickly faded and the swing came to a stop. Cora and Lulie, both shaken, fell into each other’s arms and cried.

Later that night before going to sleep, they talked about what they had experienced. They agreed that it had indeed been the spirit of Cora’s dear friend come to visit them, but not to haunt them. Cora believed that it was a sign of forgiveness on the little girl’s part - that she released Cora from her sense of guilt and shame. At least that’s how my mamaw interpreted her visitation of the dead. For her, it was a moment of heaven-sent grace. That same night, she committed herself to never being so stubborn again.

My grandmother swore that this story was absolutely true, which only added to my own anxiety as a child upon her telling of the tale. Mamaw was no stranger to the supernatural. She had seen many things in her life which were not easily explained or understood. As I grew up under her love and care, my world was imbued with the uncanny and mysterious. She taught me that “we walk by faith, not sight” (2 Cor. 7, NRSV) - and that faith means trusting that reality is always bigger than your own perception of it.

Another of my grandmother’s favorite stories to tell was about how she came to be married. Her older

Jim and Nannie Hale

sister, Nannie, had married a man from Wise, Virginia in 1898. Nannie was older than Cora by eight years. Nannie’s husband was Jamerson Hale, better known as “Jim.” He and his older brother, John Edward Hale, ran a planing mill and lumber business together back in Wise. After the wedding, Nannie moved there with Jim. In 1901, Jim’s brother, John, was separated and soon divorced from his first wife, Emma Baldwin, with whom he had two children: Napoleon Kingsley and Dewey Hobsan Hale. John was grieved at the divorce and filled with regret. His worry about it was constant - so much so that one day, while working at the mill, he lost his concentration and thus lost his right arm in an accident. He was left to raise two boys with only one remaining arm. Being a man of considerable determination, he overcame his handicap, continued to work at the mill and raised his sons. But John was lonely, and he needed help caring for Kingsley and Dewey.

Within a couple of years or so, Nannie began to talk to John about her younger sister back home in Kentucky. She had turned nineteen and her parents had begun to worry that she might be getting too old to marry. Nannie told John that Cora was pretty and also a hard worker, that he should consider her as a potential wife. It wasn’t long before he began making trips to Kentucky to see Nannie’s sister. He courted her off and on for a short time. They got along well, enjoying each other’s company.

After a time, John talked to her father, Mickleberry, about the possibility of marriage. There was,

John Edward Hale

however, an issue of age. John was only ten years younger than Mickleberry himself, and there was a distance of twenty-four years between he and Cora. She was all of a teen and he was a middle-aged man of forty-three. But neither John nor Cora seemed to mind much the difference in their ages. So it was up to her father. Mickleberry and John talked man-to-man and reached a mutual agreement. So you see, my grandparents’ marriage was somewhat of an arranged affair, as many mountain marriages were at that time. But the difference in this instance is that Cora was very willing to marry John and quickly consented to their agreement.

Now there was one person who was not happy about the impending nuptials - and that person was America, Cora’s mother. To say that she was mad about the arrangement is to put it mildly. The reason for her anger had to do with John’s age. Why was Cora agreeing to marry this “old man”? What was Cora getting herself into marrying a man who is old enough to be her father and already with two sons? Weren’t there other suitable men who were closer to Cora’s own age?

America was so furious that on the day of the wedding, she grabbed Cora, slinging her across her knee

Cora Lee Townsend, wedding picture

and gave her a serious spanking. Cora cried and cried that her mother had treated her this way, and on her very own wedding day. Nevertheless, she was determined. She pulled herself together and got ready for the ceremony. The wedding took place at the Townsend home place in Horntown, Kentucky on June 19, 1905. The service was lead by a local preacher, Rev. B. M. DeWitt. Cora was now a married woman, and ready to leave home in Kentucky for her new life in Virginia with John.

Together, John and Cora built their own house in Wise, just a block from downtown. Their method of construction was that John held the wood in place with his left hand, Cora positioned the nails and John pounded them into place with a hammer strapped to the stump of his right arm. Board by board, window by window, door by door, John and Cora built a home to hold their new family. They would eventually have eleven children together - nine of whom lived to adulthood. The house that they build was filled with children, and their home was filled with love.

My Very Own Personal Apocalypse: Conclusion

September 17, 2014

Dear patient readers,

In Part 1 of this essay, "My Very Own Personal Apocalypse," I shared the story of when I became sick with a mysterious illness and how it changed my life.  In Part 2 and Part 3, I shared with you the journey from becoming ill through the confusing search for a proper diagnosis.  In this concluding post, I describe exactly I came to be diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.

I came back to Richmond in late November 2002 from yet another trip to Kingsport, Tennessee, overseeing my father's estate.  Because of the stress of my father's death and being appointed executor of his estate, I was extremely ill and knew that I had to find a specialist who could finally help me.  I sat at my desk in my home office combing through all my own research that I had been collecting for the past year.  I had newspaper clippings and internet articles about anything that might tangentially relate to my illness or to the symptoms I was experiencing.  I was looking for a connection that might help me know who to contact at Johns Hopkins or Duke.  I remember pulling a series of articles on the anthrax attacks from September and October of 2001.  If you will recall, following the events of 9/11, a series of anthrax-laced letters were sent to several prominent people.  The letters were processed through a post office sorting center in Washington, D.C.  As a result of the attack, five people were killed and 17 others were infected with anthrax.  The Washington Post covered the story and the effects on the victims both initially when it happened, but also through follow-up stories over the course of the year.  My main interest in this terrible tragedy was the striking similarities between many of my symptoms and those of the anthrax victims.  In the fall of 2002, there were a series of stories in The Washington Post about how the survivors of the attack were not getting well.  Their symptoms lingered and even worsened.  I wondered if there might be a connection to my illness.

While it may now seem somewhat paranoid, I felt at the time that I couldn't rule any possibility out.  In the

Anthrax spores

next day or so, I began to research whether it was even remotely possible for me to have been infected with anthrax spores.  I hadn't been to D.C. in some time, so proximity was ruled out.  I didn't work at the post office sorting center, either.  Could it have been possible that I had received mail contaminated with anthrax, I wondered to myself.  I remember the panic of the news media in the fall of 2001.  There was talk that the anthrax may have been militarized (it had not) and whether even a few spores could infect a person.  However unlikely this scenario, I had to know whether there was any possibility that I had been infected.  I went to see the post master at our local post office.  I explained my situation in brief and then asked him whether any of the mail which had been sorted in D.C. could have come to Richmond - and more specifically, to my mailbox.  He said that it was certainly possible.  His post office routinely received mail from the affected facility, and mail was sent out from that facility before the anthrax was detected.  But, he concluded, he felt it highly unlikely that scenario happened.  Possible, but not probable.

I returned to my research at home, reading the newspaper articles more closely.  A particular doctor was mentioned in a number of the articles.  One article, in particular, stood out.  This doctor had treated a postal worker who showed every symptom of anthrax poisoning, but all the tests read negative for anthrax infection.  He clearly was a victim too, but no test could conclusively prove it.  This doctor personally treated two of the anthrax patients and was consulted in many of the other victims' cases, becoming somewhat of an expert on the illness following the attacks.  "I need to know more about this doctor," I determined.  Through an internet search I discovered that he was a professor of internal medicine at Johns Hopkins and head of family medicine at Sinai Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland.  Here was the connection I had been looking for - this was the doctor I needed to see.  He teaches at Johns Hopkins.  He works with patients who have perplexing illnesses.  This was my guy!

I called his office the next day, explained my situation and asked for an appointment.  I was very nervous about doing this.  After all, he is this important and well-known physician, and I'm just another patient asking for a moment of his time.  Much to my surprise, I was given an appointment during the first week of December.  I was elated that he would be able to see me in such a short time frame.  His office manager said that I would need to do some work to prepare for my visit.  I would need to gather up as many of my medical records from as far back in my life as I could, as well as test results, x-rays, MRIs, etc.  I needed to have them mailed directly to him so that he would have time before my consultation to build a comprehensive medical history and, in general, become familiar with my case.  Over the next couple of days, I did as instructed.  I even contacted the pediatrician who had seen me as a child.  Those were the only records that I could not get.  They had been destroyed when a basement file room flooded.  But other than that, he would have a very complete overview of my medical history from young adulthood on.

On the appointed day in early December 2002, Lynn and I drove from our home in Richmond, Virginia to Sinai Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland.  It took three hours to get there.  When we arrived, we didn't have to wait very long before the nurse escorted Lynn and me back to an examination room.  She told us that the doctor was still reviewing all the records that I had sent and would be with us shortly.  Lynn could see how nervous I was.  I was worried that once again nothing would be found.  I was equally nervous that something serious would indeed be found.  I didn't like either option, but I knew deep within my soul that I needed to come away from that visit with a diagnosis, a name for this thing which had invaded and disrupted my life so completely.  I wanted to know the enemy.

Finally, the doctor came in.  He was just a couple of years younger than me.  He engaged us immediately.  The first thing he said was that I didn't have anthrax.  Though I had never been tested for it, he could tell from looking at my recent lung x-ray and blood tests that anthrax could safely be ruled out.  He proceeded to tell me that after reviewing my records, we could rule out quite a number of diseases and disorders.  In fact, it was his conclusion that all of my extensive testing left him with only one logical conclusion - I had what is most commonly referred to as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.  It was known by other names, but this was the most familiar usage in the U.S.  This diagnosis, he told us, did not have a medical test to detect it.  A diagnosis could only be made when all other possibilities were excluded - which is what my previous testing had accomplished.

Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, he told us, has no known cause nor does it have a cure.  It is like an autoimmune disease in that something triggers the body's immune system to react and fight a perceived disease or infection - but one that cannot be found.  Whether it is invisible to current medical technology or simply infects the body and quickly moves on is unknown.  The key thing is that the body continues to react and literally attacks itself, like say, Lupus.  But unlike a disease such as Lupus, Chronic Fatigue does not damage the body.  In other words, I wouldn't die from it.

"How do we treat it then," I asked.  He answered that there was no treatment for the illness itself per se, but you could treat the symptoms to alleviate the way it manifests itself.  He then went on to suggest a number of medications.  He said that I would need to work with my physician and psychiatrist in Richmond to discover which medicine regimen would be best for me personally.  No two Chronic Fatigue patients are exactly alike, and each must be treated individually in a way that is unique to them.

"How long will I have this illness," I asked.  He said that there was no way to determine that.  Some percentage of patients do recover - maybe a third.  Another third may spend years with the illness waxing and waning before there is improvement.  And then there is about a third of people who do not recover and with whom the condition only worsens.  In his experience he told us that if you do not recover in the first five years after onset, then it may take as long as 20 years for the disease to burn itself out.  I was stunned!  20 years?  I'd be 62 by that time.  I'll be nearing retirement, I thought.  So what about work, I wondered aloud.  Could I still keep working.  Sure, he said, if I felt up to it.  I should try to stay as active as possible while I can because there may come a day when that is no longer an option.

By the time my appointment was over, he had spent nearly two hours with us.  He was extremely thorough.  He offered some wise counsel about how best to live with this condition.  With wet eyes, I thanked him.  He had given me something that no one else had been able to give - a name.  I now knew what my disease was.  I knew my enemy's name.  I was determined that day, and every day since, to fight this enemy and not give one inch of ground.  And so we have fought for 13 years in a relentless war over what would determine the course and content of my life.  I haven't given up yet, nor do I intend to.

(Well readers, this concludes my story of how I became ill and the process I went through to be diagnosed.  While a year may seem like a long time to find out what is making you sick, I know too many others who have this same disease and have gone years upon years before being properly diagnosed.  I was fortunate.  I had good doctors who were open to my own involvement in my diagnosis.  For the most part, they didn't give up on me, nor I them.  I was persistent.  One lesson that I have learned from this process is that one cannot be passive in his or her own health care management.  You must be proactive and work as a partner with your physician to fix what ails you.)

Peace,

Stephen

Hello! My Name Is...

January 15, 2014

I must admit that I am generally not a big fan of name tags.  I prefer the anonymity of large gatherings of people.  I also prefer introducing myself to strangers.  It just seems more personal.  That said, there is much to be said for name tags.  It's an ice-breaker between strangers.  It gives another person permission to greet me by name.  It's an invitation to get to know each other.

Today's post is about this very thing: getting to know each other.  Many of you have already reached out to me through messages and email, introducing yourselves and offering reasons why you are following my digital musings.  All of these are greatly appreciated.  Some of you have connected with me because we are already connected - as family, long-time friends, friends of friends or as colleagues.  Some of you have a different kind of kinship with me in that we share the same illness.  Still others of you feel an affinity with me because I am a writer or pastor.  Whatever the reason, I welcome you to this new community and look forward to getting to know you much better.  It is also my hope that you will get to know each other in this electronic fellowship by making comments in the "Comments Section" of this blog.  You can share in each other's thoughts and reactions.

Stephen A. Rhodes

Even though this blog has been going for a few weeks now, I thought it was time to introduce myself to you - to tell you a little bit more about who I am.

I was born and raised in Kingsport, Tennessee, which is in the upper east corner of the state.  My parents were Jim and Charlotte (Hale) Rhodes.  Dad was from Scott County, Virginia; and Mom was from the nearby county of Wise.  I have one brother, Ken.

When I graduated from Dobyns Bennett High School, I attended Emory & Henry College, which is near Abingdon, Virginia.  I was a religion major, but I actually took more courses in political science.  Both were and still are areas of major interest to me.

After graduating from E & H in 1983, I attended the Candler School of Theology at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia.  I was a Woodruff Scholar at Candler and focused on theology, biblical studies and ethics.

I married Lynn Rasor in the summer of 1986.  She was the daughter of one of my college professors.  Lynn is a special education teacher, focusing on learning disabilities.  Together, we have five wonderful and inspiring children: Cora, Hannah, Sarah, Gabbie and Abraham.  They bring us much joy.

Our family (Summer, 2013)

I was ordained as a deacon in The United Methodist Church in 1985, and as an elder in 1988.  I am currently a clergy member of The Virginia Annual Conference of The United Methodist Church.  Since coming to Virginia in 1986, I have served four appointments: 1) first in the Charlottesville area; 2) Virginia Beach; 3) Northern Virginia; and 4) Richmond, where I presently make my home.

I came to Richmond with my family in 1999 to serve as the senior pastor of River Road United Methodist Church.  I had five wonderful years with that congregation.  But while I was serving there, I became ill with a serious and mysterious illness.  Later diagnosed as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, this illness has been a part of my life since onset in November, 2001.  In 2004, I became so ill that I had to take a medical leave from active ministry.

There is much more to tell, but I will stop here.  Feel free to ask me questions.  I'll do my best to answer.

If you would like to know even more about me, then I encourage you to check out my website: www.stephenarhodes.com.  More specifically, check out my "Biography" and "Vita" pages.

By the way, I intend to devote a future post just to what it means for me to live with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.  Hopefully that will help those of you who have not heard of this disease to understand it better; and for those of you with this illness too, I hope my experience with this illness will speak to your own.

Cheers,

Steve

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