Fallen Castle

As I wrote in my previous post, I relived 20 years of my life on May 24th.  This is part two.

It was a joy to see Robert Pelfrey in the parking lot.  He is a tall man, 6’ 7’  He approached me with wide open arms and I embraced him, twice.  Hugging a person that tall makes me feel a bit like a child.  Which is convenient, because my childhood was about to be on full display. 

Robert and I went to his mother’s home, which is new to me.  She moved into Amarillo from their place in Canyon a few years ago.  Canyon is a small town south of Amarillo.  It is the town closest to where I grew up.  We went to church in Canyon.  I am a proud graduate of Canyon High--go Purple and White, go Eagles!

We spent a pleasant time with Betty Pelfrey before going to lunch at Rosa’s.  Rosa’s is a fast food restaurant that we don’t have in Nashville.  As I told Robert, if they had one in my town I’d be there every day.  Well not every day, but every week. 

A good part of our day was spent in Canyon.  We went by the old High School, which is now the Middle School.  We drove by houses that used to belong to our friends' parents.    We went by the church where Robert’s band rehearsed and where we smoked cigars in their Sunday school rooms and slept in the pews.  We stopped for gas at the Taylor Food Mart, home of our near immolation (a story for another time). 

We went up to “the Point,” aka “the Judas Rock,” which is not on any map, but where our younger selves spent many nights with our friends in packs of two to ten, philosophizing on the meaning of all things while sitting in the beds of pick-up trucks.  Robert and I drove out to the middle of nowhere (which isn’t far from Canyon) where we spent a good long time having a deep conversation about life and ministry, and life.  We ate dinner very late before falling asleep at Betty’s that night. 

Before any of that happened in and around Canyon, we drove out to Timbercreek.  That word, “TImbercreek,” may sound like any other housing development or gated community.  At this point in time, that’s pretty much what it is.  But when my father bought 70 acres of unused ranch land back in the early 1960s, it was an unspoiled canyon.  On one side of that canyon, the western rim, he started a colony for artists, named Colony Catherine after one of his business partners.  He built some oddly shaped buildings out of concrete and steel, including three modified geodesic domes.  Two of these were built right into the side of the cliff wall. 

In 1969 Robert fell in love with Ginger, they married and had a baby boy.  Robert was 22 years older than his bride; this was not his first marriage.  I was his first and only son.    I was born in a hospital and brought home to a dome built into the side of a cliff.  Soon after, my father brought the wheat barn that had been on his family farm.  He had it moved in its entirety to a perch high over the canyon.  He converted it into a house, where I lived with my parents and, later, with my baby sister. 

My dad had another plan.  He went about building a dream home for his family. No architect, he crafted that house like a giant sculpture.  Though it took three years, and though it was interrupted by a botched surgery that paralyzed his legs from just below the knee, he completed it and we moved in. 

It was a castle.  Built of Robert’s favorite materials, white concrete and steel and plexiglass, it was rooted deep into the canyon wall on one side, while part of it jutted out far passed the cliffs and into thin air.  A high white wall surrounded it, and a round tower looked out over the trees and rocks and creek below.  Each bedroom opened up onto the walled courtyard, a courtyard with a mosaic floor, fruit trees, and a built in swimming pool (my mother’s one great request).  Guests entered down a walkway, through a great iron gate in the barrier wall, through the courtyard, through the doors that used to hang in the Wrigley Mansion in Chicago, and into the domed great room. A large living tree grew in that room, a 19th century French carousel cow “leapt” below it.  Banners hung over the long, oval dining table.  The art of many young and/or respected artists hung on every wall.  Two fireplaces kept the room warm. 

I could go on about the wonders of the house, of the natural beauty we saw every day out of those huge windows, of the resentment my dad had at first when houses began to be built on the other side of the creek, of the way he ultimately teamed up with the newcomers to make the whole canyon safe and welcoming.  I could go on about the way the house made me feel.  I won’t.  I will use one adjective, though, which might convey my feelings.  I felt special.  For good or for ill, I felt that living in a castle made me a kind of prince.  I will leave to your imagination the kind of spiritual and psychological lessons I learned, and those I have had to unlearn, from that experience. 

I had visited my old house many years ago.  At that time, I found a couple living in it who had not taken good care of it.  I did not know what to expect this time. 

Driving to the house on May 24th, the road became very rough.  The house is at the end of a private road, and the owner of the house must keep it up.  Frankly, it was close to impassible for my wife’s Jetta.  I was just saying to Robert that I hoped whoever lived there owned an SUV when I saw a Jeep parked in the driveway.  It was one of those with huge, oversized tires.  As we parked next to it, two girls in their late teens were coming up the walkway.  I noticed that there were several signs posted around the parking area: “Posted, No Trespassing, No Hunting, Violators Will Be Prosecuted.”  Given that the house is at the edge of civilization, with not much but wild land on the other side, I figured they must have had some recent problems.

One of the two girls spoke first, “have you seen a dog? My dog took off and we can’t find him.”  Robert asked about the particulars of the dog, which she gave.  She then said “I’m sorry, I know we’re not supposed to be here.”  I guessed the signs had had their intended effect.  “That’s O.K.,” I said, “I’m not supposed to be here, either.  I used to live here, and I’m just coming by for a visit.  Do you know who lives here now?”  Then she said words I did not expect.  “No one lives here, it’s abandoned.” 

They got in their jeep and drove away.  I looked at Robert.  I said, “if it’s abandoned, I guess that means we can go inside.  If we can find an unlocked door or window.”  We went down the “family way,” into the garage.  We didn’t have to look far to find a way in. 

Every door in the house was either gone or wide open.  Many of the windows were broken.  Some interior walls have been torn down, leaving the place even more open than it had been in my childhood.  There were no more closets, no place to hide anything.  Robert and I walked all around, through utterly empty rooms.  We went upstairs, into the tower that was my father’s studio.  It is still round, with an amazing 360 degree view of the canyonlands.  It is empty; the doorway to the deck was lying on the floor.  We walked out onto the roof, which I loved to do as a child.  From up there I couldn’t see that much had changed, except the fruit trees are dead and the swimming pool only has the dirty remains of rainwater in it.  And a table someone had thrown in.

Standing where the dining table used to be

All this sounds very sad, and I would be lying if I said I did not stand on that roof and cry.  I did just that.  But there was something else, a kind of hope I don’t know how to explain. 

It was a gorgeous day.  With many windows gone, a refreshing breeze was blowing through the house.  It was a brilliant, bright day.  There was no need for any artificial light.  The place seemed airy and peaceful.  Also, the house looked like someone was purposefully deconstructing it.  There was no graffiti, no beer bottles, no cigarette buts, nothing that would indicate it had become a “den of iniquity.”  Though windows were broken, there was very little broken glass.  The interior walls that were gone looked like they had been removed purposefully.  All in all, I had the sense that someone was taking it apart on purpose.  Kind of like de-construction site.  

This gave me two possible hopes.  My first and greatest hope is that someone is going to take the house over and restore it.  I would love to think of some other family, some other princes and princesses, living in that castle.  What a wonderful place for someone to grow up!  My other hope is that someone will put the house out of its misery.  The land must be valuable by now, with all the construction around the canyon.  Perhaps someone is going to bring it down.  At least then it could rest in peace. 

I mentioned in an earlier post that Amarillo is my dreamscape.  Many of my dreams are set there.  I used to dream every night of my house.  I still do, though not nearly as often.  Still, even last night as I slept here at the Monastery of Christ in the Desert, I awoke briefly, recognized I had just had a dream set in my old house, and then went back to sleep. 

The disconnect between my dreams and reality should now be complete, though I doubt it is.  There is at this moment a part of my brain that does not believe anything has changed.  I took many pictures of my abandoned house, in part to remind myself--to reteach my mind. 

I love my memories in that place and of that place.  But I must let the place itself go.  It has gone the way of all flesh, the way of all things.  “All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field … The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever.” (Isaiah 40:6,8)

Bury My Heart in Carson County

The McKenzie family plot in Carson County TX

May 24th, 2012.  Part One.

I relived 20 years of my life on May 24th.  That’s too long for one blog post.  This is part one.

I woke up in a hotel off Interstate 40 in Amarillo, Texas.  I called Laura, ate the breakfast, and then texted Robert Pelfrey.  Robert is my best friend from high school and was the best man at my wedding.  His mother, father, and brother all live in Amarillo.  Robert is a Methodist minister working at a church in Midland, 4+ hours from Amarillo.  When I told him that I would be in town on the 24th, he responded that he would drive up.  We could spend time together and sleep at his mother’s house.  Sleeping at Betty’s house was something I have done a great deal of, practically every weekend in high school. 

Since I had arrived early to Amarillo, Robert was still on his way up.  He told me not to begin my adventures without him.  I assured him I would not.  But seeing that I had a couple of hours alone, I decided to take the 30+ mile trip to Panhandle. 

Panhandle is a tiny town, the county seat of Carson County.  My dad, Robert McKenzie, had grown up on a wheat farm near there.  His sister and several other family members had lived in Panhandle when I was a boy.  My dad was born in 1919, his parents were some of the early white settlers of Carson County, having come in the early 20th century land rush.  For those of you fortunate enough to have read “The Worst Hard Time,” they were those people.  My family rode out the Dust Bowl.

I drove straight to the Carson County Square House Museum.  It is a lovely place that tells the story of the area.  My dad was very involved with the museum.  There is a large, long room there dedicated to the history and free spirit of the settlers called “Freedom Hall.”  Robert McKenzie designed, built and filled practically every one of its displays.

Walking through Freedom Hall felt less like walking through the history of Panhandle and more like walking through my own childhood.  All those displays, those paintings, those artifacts, those pictures, even the lettering of the words, all of it came from my father’s hands.  I remembered so many of those objects being on our kitchen table or in his studio.  I remember him reading the history blurbs to me, and showing me how to place each letter individually on the displays.  I remember his agonizing about the historical accuracy of this headdress or that arrow.  Being in that room was like being 10 years old again.

I looked around at other parts of the museum.  They have a replica “dug out,” the kind of home that my grandparents built when they first arrived, the kind of shelter that a beetle would find comforting.  They have a red caboose from an old train.  My sister and I used to play in that caboose as my dad worked in the museum.  They have a large, newer hall where my dad displayed two or three of his art shows much later in life.  They have a painting of Jo Randle, the woman who ran the museum.  She was a dear friend of my father’s, though she scared the heck out of me as a boy.  My godfather, Delmas Howe, painted her portrait. 

I met a woman who said she has worked at the museum for 13 years.  She remembered my father.  She asked if I was the person he had made those chasubles for (my dad created some wonderful religious vestments).  It told her I was not, as I was not ordained when he made most of them, but that he had given me quite a few.  She gave me a historical map of the Texas Panhandle.  I asked her if she could direct me to the cemetery. 

I drove out to the Panhandle Cemetery.  It wasn’t on Google Maps, but I did put it on FourSquare while I was there.  You’re welcome. 

The cemetery sits on the edge of town, down a residential road of small homes.  Beyond it the wheat fields stretch out to the clear, flat horizon.  There is a small chapel in the cemetery.  Near the chapel, mere steps away, is the oldest section, the section used by the settlers.  That is where you will find the McKenzie plot. 

There are two tombstones in the McKenzie plot, but one of them marks two graves.  A rectangle of bricks marks the boundaries of the plot.  There is room for two more graves.  The double tombstone belongs to Thomas Horatio and Anna Haigh McKenzie, my father’s parents.  Their tombs are marked by the dates of their lives, and by the symbols of the Masonic Lodge and Order of the Eastern Star (I still have Thomas’ 32nd degree Mason ring).  The other stone marks the final resting place of Elizabeth McKenzie.  She was my dad’s favorite sister.  He described her as a carefree, gracious and loving woman.  She had a failed marriage and died in her forties of cancer. 

The other two plots belong to my aunt Frances and to my father.  Frances is buried in the Panhandle Cemetery, but several plots away.  She married into the Apel clan and lies next to her husband, Johnny.  My dad’s ashes reside in St. Timothy’s Episcopal Church in Cincinnati, Ohio.  Well, most of them do. 

My parents moved from Texas when I was a senior in college.  My mom began work in Ohio, where she is a professor at Xavier University.  While Robert’s body left Texas, his heart never did.  He still owned land in Texas, his bank was in Texas, he had a Texas driver’s license, he was still a member of St. George’s Episcopal Church in Canyon, Texas.  When he died nearly four years ago, I went through his papers and found that he was still registered to vote in Randall County, Texas.  He had been voting absentee in local elections for 17 years. 

I respect my mother’s decision to keep my dad’s remains close to her, in the columbarium at the church they were part of for many years.  If it was my spouse, I would do the same.  But, as his son, I also felt that Robert would want to rest in Texas.  Do you know the book “Bury my Heart at Wounded Knee”?  I read that book in college, and I know the Indigo Girls song of the same name.  The title of the book inspired me. 

Before my dad was laid to rest, I asked for a portion of his ashes.  Three years ago, while I was in New Mexico on my way from the Monastery of Christ in the Desert to the Albuquerque airport, I made a not-so-short detour to Panhandle.  On a clear day, underneath the vast blue sky, I scattered Robert McKenzie’s ashes on his family plot, next to his parents and beloved sister.  I buried his heart on the High Plains of West Texas.  I have never wept so much as I did on that day, the day I truly felt like I told him goodbye.  Goodbye for now.

Visiting Panhandle was visiting my father.  I walked again where he walked.  I saw again his legacy, his art, his personality.  I said a prayer at his grave.  I touched my grief again.  Not nearly as strong as it was three years ago, but it is always present. 

I got back in my car and drove to Amarillo, where I would meet my dear friend, also named Robert, at the Barnes & Noble near the mall.  From there, my journey backward continued...

The Panhandle Cemetery Chapel

You'll See Amarillo

On the first day of my sabbatical, I kissed my wife and kids then hit the road.  My intention was to take I-40 all the way to somewhere near the Arkansas/Oklahoma border.  I had a reservation in an Oklahoma town called Henryetta. On day two, I intended to drive into Amarillo, Texas.  I grew up in Amarillo and had made plans to meet up with my best friend from high school, Robert.

It has been a long time since I drove a great distance by myself.  Years ago, when I was much younger, I loved to hit the highway alone.  The summer before my senior year in college I spent an entire month driving around the American West.  I saw so many amazing sites that summer, some of which I hope to see again this summer. 

Now I am 40.  My long drives are now made with my ladies in the car.  I was nervous about how I would handle those hours.  The car I'm driving, my wife's Jetta, doesn't even have cruise control!

I guess long-distance driving is like riding a bicycle.  I stopped to eat in Jackson, TN.  I stopped for gas somewhere near Little Rock.  I blew passed Henryetta in the late afternoon.  I ate dinner at a sub-standard ribs place in Oklahoma City.  950 miles and 14 hours later, I arrived in Amarillo.  I felt great right up to the end.

To most travelers on I-40, Amarillo is nothing more than a reliable place to get a meal or a shabby hotel room while on the way to some place better.  For me, it is a dream.  I moved from here more than half my life ago.  I have only been back on very rare occasions.  When I have come back, it has almost always been for a few hours, on my way to some other place.

There are places that exist in two locations at once.  There are buildings, fields, scenes that I see in my mind (my dreams and memories), but these places also exist in real life.  They must be older, some of them must have changed.  Here on the High Plains of West Texas, I will see them again.

When I come to Amarillo my brain reacts violently.  All of these old, dusty neurons start to fire.  The dreamscape and the landscape begin to merge.  I feel a bit like I'm going crazy. 

As I write this, I am in a hotel breakfast room.  The only thing I've seen of Texas so far has been this hotel and the generic highway at night.  Today I expect to see my dreams come to life, and not necessarily in good ways. 

I look forward to seeing my old friend.  I hope we have a great time reconnecting.  I look forward to spending the night at his mom's house, as we used to do practically every weekend night in high school.  I look forward to seeing the Monastery of Christ in the Desert tomorrow afternoon.  I look forward to seeing my wife and children again in Washington State.  So I look forward, but today I expect I will spending some time looking backward.

One Minute Review: Battleship

 Another film based on a toy. Another blockbuster hit? The One Minute Review has seen Battleship and we can tell you if your will win or get your ship sunk.

One Minute Review: The Dictator

Sacha Baron Cohen has made another "offensive, shocking" movie in which he plays an over-the-top character. Is it crazy? Is it funny? Thomas McKenzie did your dirty work for you, and the One Minute Review gives you the low down.

Telling a Child about a Death

I recently received an e-mail from a parent.  A relative had died, and they were asking how to share this with their child.  I responded with an e-mail.  I know that people deal with this all the time, so I thought it might be helpful to turn it into a blog post.  After I shared my condolences, here is what I wrote.

I think two things are important as you talk to your daughter.  These are two things that I think are always important when we deal with the death of someone close to us.  First, it is important that she be allowed to have her feelings.  I think it is appropriate that you show her your feelings too, though not in an overwhelmed moment when she might feel the need to comfort you.  I would show her that I am sad and upset about it, and that she can feel however she wants.  She can be sad, angry, worried, or not even have an emotional response at all.  And she may not respond, or she may have a delayed response.  She may just be sad that other people are sad.  And all that is O.K.

St. Paul tells us "Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest, who have no hope." (1 Thessalonians 4:13)  That is the second crucial piece.  We grieve, we feel our feelings, but we have hope.  So this is a great opportunity to tell her about the hope you have in Christ.  That your loved one  has a dwelling place prepared for him in paradise, and that someday we will see him again, and that all of this comes through the cross and resurrection of Jesus.  So while this is sad, some day all sad things will come untrue.  This is not meant to take away grief, but to put it into the context of everlasting life. 

She is not going to get all of that intellectually.  But, as she sees you all talk about it and live it out, she will grasp it in her heart and spirit. 

Sabbatical

Anglican priests are supposed to take a sabbatical every seven years. A sabbatical is an extended time of rest and refreshment. I was ordained about 13 and a half years ago, and I'm looking forward to my first sabbatical beginning in less than a week.

First thing I'm doing is driving to the Monastery of Christ in the Desert in New Mexico. After some time there, I'm going to drive to Seattle where I will pick up my lovely wife and precious daughters. We are going to spend the next almost two months together. We'll be on an island off the coast of Washington State, we'll be in Nevada, New Mexico, and Colorado. Most of the time we are staying at the grace of friends who are lending us space in their homes.

My intention is to rest. I want to lounge around and look at beautiful vistas. I want to spend time outside. I want to reconnect with my three amazing ladies. I also have a writing project I've been poking at for a long time that I am finally hoping to really get to.

I'll be keeping you updated through this blog, twitter, facebook, etc. But sometimes I won't be. I'm not making any promises.

If you think of it, say a prayer for us.

My Church is Going to Pittsburgh

Archbishop Duncan of Pittsburgh

This is the letter I just sent out to my congregation:

Dear Church of the Redeemer,

I am writing with some exciting news regarding our affiliation within the Anglican Communion.  Last month, I wrote to you about our transition from the Anglican Mission in the Americas (AMiA) to the Anglican Church in North America (ACNA).  The paperwork is in process, so our transition is not yet technically complete.  Redeemer will probably have to make some alterations in our by-laws.  However, the important decisions have been made.  So while it may take a few weeks or even months for all the parties to process all the documents, I am pleased to announce that we are moving toward our new home.

Church of the Redeemer will soon be part of the Anglican Diocese of Pittsburgh.  Our bishop will be Archbishop Bob Duncan.  We will also be receiving care from his assistant, Bishop Frank Lyons and Bishop Duncan’s Canon, the Very Reverend Mary Hays.

The Diocese of Pittsburgh has a two-hundred year history.  It is a large, stable diocese with excellent and godly leadership.  It will give us the spiritual covering and support that we need.  Further, the Anglican Diocese of Pittsburgh has a spiritual gift (a charism) of helping new dioceses come into existence.  They currently have deaneries in other cities.  A deanery is a cluster of churches that comes together under the authority of a diocese.  The diocese then tutors them in how to become a diocese.  The Diocese of Pittsburgh has agreed to let Church of the Redeemer start a Deanery of Tennessee.  It is my believe that this Deanery will be one of the primary building blocks of a future Anglican Diocese of Tennessee.  In the meantime, our church will be part of the one of the most missional and vibrant dioceses in the Anglican Church.

If you have questions or would like to have further conversation, please feel free to contact any of the Elders or Pastors.  May the Lord bless you, bless our church, and bless Tennessee through us.

In Christ,

The Reverend Thomas McKenzie
Pastor, Church of the Redeemer

One Minute Review: Dark Shadows

Tim Burton and Johnny Depp have joined up again, this time for Dark Shadows. Fr. Thomas McKenzie has visited the shadows for you, and he has returned with this One Minute Review. You might want to watch it before deciding to spend the time and money on the movie.

One Minute Review: The Avengers

This is the the One Minute Review of The Avengers.  Enjoy!



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