A PILGRIMAGE TO SALEM

 4572

Pt. 1

 

I have always wanted to visit Salem, Massachusetts.

 

It is a sad and convoluted story, but I have family ties there; undesired, undenied, but undisputable ties there.

 

As any serious student of history knows, between 1692 and 1693 dozens of Salem's citizens were accused of being witches, and approximately thirty were not only judged, but found guilty. As a result, most were hung by the neck 'til dead, at least one was pressed to death by heavy stones, and several died in prison.

 

I regret to say that two of my ancient uncles, Joseph and Jarvis Ring, were involved in that nasty business.

 

Fast forward exactly three and one third centuries.

 

Recently my wife and I were in Massachusetts. Our daughter had undergone surgery in Boston, remained in the hospital several days, and was released to return home. Having been released, Kristy insisted on driving the two hours which lay ahead of us.

 

However, we had hardly left the hospital when our plans abruptly changed.

 

Our daughter spoke.

 

"How about we take a slight detour? Haven't you always wanted to see Salem?"

 

To which I replied,

 

"Well, you have just completed a serious operation. Wouldn't you rather head on home?"

 

Not to be deterred, Kristy was determined to follow through with her plan.

 

Pt. 2

 

 

Not knowing Massachusetts, I had no idea I might have almost walked the 15 miles between Boston and Salem. We were there before a half hour had elapsed.

 

I had read the testimonies of my maternal 9th great uncles, Joseph and Jarvis. I knew they had accused, and testified against a particular woman.

 

While we were in Salem, my daughter and I took a trolley tour; a tour which focused on the sites where the accused citizens were interned, and, ultimately, executed. We drove by the site of the old prison, and the location of the hangings. Having been hung, their bodies were thrown off the brow of a hill. (It is said that their relatives retrieved their bodies at night, and provided them a primitive burial).

 

I had seen photos of the Salem memorial stones; each one bearing the name of one of the accused so-called "witches."

One of the stones was inscribed with the name, Susannah Martin; the lady against whom my ancient relatives gave false testimony.

 

I stood there for the longest time. And I found myself doing penance, as it were; on the part of mouths long since stilled, and which no longer had the wherewithal to utter an accusing word.

 

"I am so, so sorry, Susannah. You were wrongfully deprived of a long, good life. I ask your forgiveness. My family asks your forgiveness."

 

It seemed a weight, almost as heavy as that memorial stone, fell off my shoulders.

 

Old Testament scripture speaks of generational blessings and curses. I think if the dynamic of curses applies in the New Testament, it is largely due to bad role modeling, and a conscious willingness to emulate one's forebears' behavior patterns. Those who have placed their faith in a merciful Savior, who have been forgiven of their sins, and have been saved by grace have, I believe, been removed from the curse.

However, I not only did what I had to do that day. I did what I had desperately wanted to do.

 

As a counselor I have often told my clients,

 

"There are no time machines."      

 

And yet, I like to think I fulfilled a personal mission that day which will serve, as best just one man can, to reconcile a severe injustice inflicted upon someone who in no way deserved it.

 

Rest in peace, Susannah. Rest in peace.

 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

A DEATH IN SALEM

 4571

Telegram & Gazette
Monday, March 27, 2006
Who was Joseph Ring and why was he killed?

By Wilson Ring THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

ELIOT, Maine— An L-shaped cellar hole still marks the site of the Neale Garrison, built in the mid-1600s a quarter-mile uphill from the Piscataqua River. Somewhere near here 302 years ago, an ancestor of mine was burned at the stake.

I visited the garrison’s remains as part of a quest to learn as much as I could about the final hours of Joseph Ring — my six-times-great-grandfather.

Along the way, I’ve confirmed quite a bit about his life: that he fought in some of America’s earliest Indian wars, that he gave some curious testimony at the Salem witch trials which helped hang a woman, and that, yes, he, too, came to an untimely end.

Unfortunately, he seems to have left no letters or diaries behind. But my quest put me in closer touch with a cousin, and together we shed light on stories passed down over the years and made some new discoveries about our distant relative.

It was in 1638 that Joseph Ring’s father, Robert, emigrated from England to the new world as a 24-year-old indentured servant.

A barrel maker, Robert eventually became a solid middle-class member of Massachusetts society, and the area of land he owned, near where the Merrimack River empties into the Atlantic Ocean, is still known as Ring’s Island.

Joseph Ring was born Aug. 3, 1664, in Salisbury, Mass., to Robert and his wife, Elizabeth Jarvis.

The boy, whose life would become a series of entanglements with history, was 11 when King Philip’s War broke out. This was the first of a series of on-again, off-again wars between the English settlers on the one side and the Indians and their French allies on the other, that would last almost 100 years.

Today we can reinterpret the Indian wars as a clash of competing cultures which the Europeans were destined to win. But 17th-century settlers living at the edge of English civilization didn’t know if they would survive.

“Northern New Englanders faced an unknown enemy that seemingly appeared from nowhere, struck with devastating force and just as quickly disappeared,” said Cornell University history professor Mary Beth Norton, one of many academics who helped me trace my ancestor.

She said some readers of her 2002 book, “In the Devil’s Snare,” which linked the witch trials to the Indian wars on the frontier, compared the fear of Indians then to the terror following the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks on the United States.

In Joseph Ring’s time, all able-bodied men served in local militias; volunteers were recruited for expeditions, or garrison duty on the frontier.

“The recruits tended to be younger, unattached types, who could use a few dollars and enjoyed an adventure,” said Emerson “Tad” Baker, chairman of the history Department at Salem (Mass.) State College.

Ring fit the profile. He was part of an expedition in 1690 as New Hampshire Capt. Shadrach Walton tried to relieve Fort Loyal, a stockade in Casco, now Portland, where about 200 inhabitants had been besieged by 500 Indians and French soldiers.

The four-vessel expedition arrived too late.

Ring and the others found the town burning after the Indians killed most of the settlers who had surrendered and been promised safe passage by the French commander.

The Indians “wreaked their vengeance unchecked,” reported the 1897 “Border Wars of New England” by Samuel Drake. “After plundering the fort the invaders set it on fire, and it was soon burned to the ground, leaving Casco untenanted, save by the unburied bodies of the slain.”

Most of what we know about Ring came from two affidavits he gave in 1692. They describe Ring’s role in the ill-fated expedition to Fort Loyal and provide other glimpses into his activities and possibly his state of mind.

In the statements, Ring describes a meeting that appears to have changed his life. In a tavern in Great Island, N.H., on the way to relieve Casco he met a man named Thomas Hardy, who invited Ring to play shuffleboard. Ring didn’t have any money, but Hardy lent him two shillings. Ring lost.

Over the next year, Ring was terrorized by Hardy, who kept demanding his money. Ring described a series of bizarre, dreamlike encounters with his nemesis and others. In one, Ring “was scared out of his wits by a fireball and ‘the dreadfull noyse & hideous shapes of these creaturs,’ ” Baker wrote, quoting words attributed to my ancestor.

Joseph Ring was possessed by demons, the Puritan minister Cotton Mather would write in a 1693 account justifying the witch trials. The young militiaman, he claimed, was struck dumb by a woman who was present when he met Hardy, a widow named Susannah Martin.

In 1692, Ring gave testimony during Martin’s trial in Salem that he had been drinking cider with Martin, another woman and Hardy before a roaring fire. Martin, he said, transformed herself into a pig.

She was hanged on July 19, 1692.

It took a while for me to come to terms with the reality that my ancestor contributed to the Salem witch trials, an event in American history that still horrifies and fascinates many.

How could he, like others, turn against his neighbors?

It may be that a modern concept — post-traumatic stress — helps explain Ring’s strange and fateful claims. He surely absorbed a terror of Indian attacks, not just because of his militia experience, but family experience, as well.

His wife, Mary Brackett, came from a family that was one of the first to settle the area now known as Portland. As a 12-year-old girl, she and some relatives had been taken captive by a party of Indian raiders and marched into the wilderness before they escaped in a canoe. Later, in separate incidents, her grandparents, father and brother were killed.

The so-called Brackett Lane Massacre in Rye, N.H., in which several of Mary Brackett’s relatives died at the hands of an Indian raiding party, came close to the time of one bizarre encounter between Ring and Hardy — and Norton thinks that’s significant.

Norton believes Ring’s experiences along the frontier contributed to his testimony against Susannah Martin.

“Joseph Ring is a great example of a frontier resident who was terrified by the threat posed by the Indian war ...,” said Norton. “Although he appeared as a witness against Susannah Martin, he seemed far more concerned about the Indians and the demons he saw aligned with them than with Goody Martin.”

Norton turns out to be an indirect descendant of Susannah Martin. And I’ve learned, ironically, so is my cousin, Franz Martin.

He lives in Los Angeles and spends much of his free time in the genealogy section of the public library, going through old town and family histories or rolling through microfilm records of Colonial New England.

He has mined a number of tidbits. In the fall of 1703, Massachusetts placed a bounty on Indian scalps and sent out three raiding parties on snowshoes to keep their adversaries off balance. Joseph Ring is not on a list of Massachusetts soldiers from what was called Queen Anne’s War. But it’s possible he was an off-the-books soldier, perhaps a bounty hunter, seeking to avenge his family’s losses.

In any event, on Jan. 28, 1704, Indians attacked the Neale Garrison, and settlers fought them off with help from soldiers stationed nearby. A 1726 history of the early Indian wars by Samuel Penhallow said nine attackers were killed.

The losses so enraged the Indians, Penhallow wrote, “that at their return they executed their revenge on Joseph Ring, who was then a Captive among them, whom they fastened to a Stake and burnt alive; barbarously shouting and rejoicing at his cries.”

We still don’t know when, why or how Ring was made captive.

Three hundred years later, many people are surprised when I tell them the story of my ancestor who was burned at the stake after testifying in the Salem witch trials.

Some see his end as a fitting comeuppance. I don’t think so. I’ve come to believe that Ring was a victim of the times he lived in.

Still, the fragments we have on Joseph Ring might be compared to the jawbone a paleontologist hopes to use to build a complete skeleton. My cousin Franz and I continue to dig.

 

**Joseph & Jarvis Ring were my 9^th great Uncles, and were brothers.

They both testified at the Salem Witch Trials. As a result, a woman named Susannah Martin was put to death.

(William Royce McDonald, PhD)

A MOMENTARY MEETING ON AN ELEVATOR IN GLASGOW, SCOTLAND

 4570

My wife and I took the vacation of a lifetime eight years ago. 

We joined a tour group and traveled to Ireland, N. Ireland, and Scotland. During the course of our journey, we found ourselves in a hotel in Glasgow, Scotland; next to a beautiful bridge which spans the River Clyde, and a hundred yards from the theater in which Susan Boyle sang, "I Dreamed a Dream."

Sometime during our brief visit in Glasgow, I took the elevator from our third floor room to the lobby. At this stage I forget the nature of my mission. After a few minutes, I retraced my steps, and re-entered the elevator. A non-descript, middle-aged man stepped in behind me.

Now, my newfound friend spoke.

"Aren't you an American?"

(I could tell from his accent that he was a native-born Scotsman).

I responded.

"Why, yes. Yes, I am."

He continued. And referring to World War II, he exclaimed,

"Ah. We are so very grateful that your dear lads willingly helped us during that great conflict. So many of your wonderful countrymen died for that worthy cause. We can never thank them enough!"

At this stage I cannot remember how I answered him, but I provided him what I thought was a fitting response.

Now, the elevator stopped at my third floor landing, the doors opened, I bid the man "goodbye," and I stepped out.

I suppose our interaction that evening consumed less than a minute, but I have never forgotten it. And, no doubt, I will continue to reflect on our conversation the remainder of the days which God has allotted to me. 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

JESUS IN A BASEBALL CAP

 4569 

(A Song Created by Chat GPT Using Only the Title of the Song)

Verse 1

He was standin’ by the interstate,

With a cardboard sign held high,

A faded pair of workin’ boots,

And kindness in his eyes.

I almost kept on drivin’,

Like a hundred times before,

Then something in my heart said,

“Son, what are you hurryin’ for?”

Chorus

It might be Jesus in a baseball cap,

Ridin’ in the seat beside you,

A little down on his luck,

Just seein’ what your love might do.

He may not look like the pictures,

With a halo ’round his head—

He might be hungry at the corner,

Hoping you’ll share your bread.

You never know who Heaven sends,

Or how an angel might be dressed—

It might be Jesus in a baseball cap,

Putting your faith to the test.

Verse 2

He said he had a family

About twenty miles away,

His old truck quit that morning,

And he’d been walkin’ half the day.

We talked about our children,

About forgiveness, fear, and grace,

And every time he smiled at me,

I swear I knew that face.

Chorus

It might be Jesus in a baseball cap,

Ridin’ in the seat beside you,

A little down on his luck,

Just seein’ what your love might do.

He may not look like the pictures,

With a halo ’round his head—

He might be hungry at the corner,

Hoping you’ll share your bread.

You never know who Heaven sends,

Or how an angel might be dressed—

It might be Jesus in a baseball cap,

Putting your faith to the test.

Verse 3

I pulled into the station,

Bought some supper and some gas,

He thanked me like I’d saved his life—

I said, “Brother, don’t mention that.”

But when I turned to leave him,

There was no one standing there,

Just an old cap on the front seat

And a feeling God was near.

Bridge

“Whatever you do for the least of these,”

The preacher used to say—

Maybe miracles still happen,

They just don’t look that way.

Final Chorus

It might be Jesus in a baseball cap,

Sittin’ in the pew behind you,

The neighbor that you never greet,

Or the stranger passing by you.

He may not look like the pictures,

With a halo ’round his head—

He might be lonely at the table,

Waiting for a friend.

So keep your eyes and your heart open,

And give the world your best—

For Jesus in a baseball cap

May be putting love to the test.

Yeah, Jesus in a baseball cap—

Sometimes Heaven looks like that.

 

MY PERSONAL "ALMOSTS"

 4568

I have previously written about most, or all of my "almosts." 

However, I am inclined to revisit the topic.

As I remember the year was 1968, and I was working as a laborer in the phosphate industry. I had offered two fellow laborers a ride home, and as we rounded a curve in the driving rain, on an old mine road, I managed to do a very realistic imitation of an action movie. My 1964 Ford Fairlane rolled three times before coming to a stop; wheels pointed skyward.

And then there was the time I was working at the same, (or perhaps a different phosphate mine), a year or two later. For lack of a better term, I was a Pit Car Man. I, and another fellow, (whose identity has long escaped me), would sit in, for lack of a better term, hydraulic trailer, and aim steel water nozzles at the phosphate feed, (or ore), which a nearby dragline deposited twenty feet in front of us. The water from our hydraulic guns washed the phosphate into a large pipe leading to the processing facility. From time to time, I would take a break, and walk over to the dragline to "shoot the bull" with the operator.

However, on this particular evening, I was a bit careless, as I found myself walking across the sweep of the ten ton dragline bucket, and, unbeknownst to me, the "bigger digger" was on its way to "taking me out." Suddenly, the dragline operator noticed me in the darkness of the night, and went into emergency mode. Mr. Jenkins slammed his hand against a lever, and the bucket bumped against the curvature of the deep pit from which he had been digging. I was just seconds from "past tense." Needless to say, the operator gave me "what for."

I suppose it was about 1990, and we were driving home from church one Sunday in our 1980 something big green Oldsmobile. As we approached a stop sign on our right, a small blue car failed to yield. I could make out a man and his wife in the front seat. Peering at my wife and me from the back seat were a young boy and girl. My wife slammed on brakes! 50 feet. 40 feet. We were skidding towards oblivion for all that old Oldsmobile was worth! Six people were well on their way to the Promised Land! (Did I mention we weren't wearing seatbelts? We weren't).

And it seemed that time slowed down, as if I had been granted the grace to ponder the best decision under the briefest of time constraints. Without so much as a thought, I knew, I just knew what to do. Reaching over with my left hand, I took the steering wheel away from my wife, and began to steer our vehicle to the right. And although the brakes were locking up now, our automobile had the slightest mobility of lateral movement. Now, we found ourselves passing behind the little blue vehicle, and the precious family therein, by all of 12 or 14 inches! However, what happened next might have rivaled the best carnival ride. For now, the front of our old car began doing a mind-boggling 180! By now, the offending vehicle had continued on its journey. (And given our juxtaposition, it was plainly visible out the front windshield)! We were skidding backwards at perhaps 40 mph, and couldn't do a thing about it. However, slowly, but ever so surely, we lost momentum, and came to rest in a grassy area next to the panel fence of a private home. The Lord had surely been riding with us!

About 15 years ago, I decided to cut back a tree which was hanging over my driveway. My neighbor's oak tree insisted on shedding pollen all over the concrete each Fall. Retrieving a long, aluminum straight ladder from my backyard, I walked it through my garage, and laid it down in the grass under the tree. After surveying the limbs that I planned to cut, I lifted the ladder, and propped it against an old, unused, wooden basketball post. Well, my friends, whoever said that "hindsight is always 20/20" was "onto something!" Although the square edges of the ladder, and the round lack of edges of the post were anything but symmetrical, I figured I would make it work. Whoever said, "almost is only close enough in hand grenades, and nuclear war" was also "onto something."

I proceeded to climb the ladder, a handsaw in my right hand. I had climbed up five steps, and was at the height of about six feet when the ladder wobbled, and shifted to the left! I was falling; (and there wasn't a darn thing I could do about it)! My body was in the process of doing the Isaac Newton thing! Speaking of time slowing down, I once again experienced the same sensation. I had a choice to make, and the results of my choice would seal my fate; be it mild, moderate, or downright miserable. I could land in the face plant position, land on one foot, or land on two feet. I chose the latter of the three options. Having landed on both feet, I sensed an excruciating pain in my right ankle. Sitting down on the concrete, and not unlike Mrs. Fairfax in the Victorian novel, "Jane Eyre," I thought, "What to do? What to do?"

Having arrived at a conclusion, I managed to crawl to the basketball post, and stand up on my left leg. Now, I hop-scotched to the front door; a space of perhaps 30 feet. Ultimately, after having the damage evaluated, and discovering I had powered the bones in my ankle, I submitted to surgery, a significant amount of plates and screws were embedded, and a fluorescent yellow cast was installed. I will spare you most of the details here, but a couple weeks later I was hobbling around the house on crutches, and my wife suddenly said, "What is that on the back of your calf; just above the cast?" Sitting down, I turned my calf so I could look at it. An almost black, valentine-shaped mole. (Well, my friends, it was definitely no valentine)! The color contrast between the cast and the mole had made the latter much more apparent. After a biopsy, I learned it was a deadly melanoma. Another surgery was the order of the day. Later, it occurred to me that had I not broken my ankle, and the subsequent fluorescent yellow cast not been installed, my melanoma might have never been discovered, it would have, no doubt, metastasized, and by now, I would not be among the land of the living!

Speaking of automobile accidents which almost, but not quite, happened, my wife was driving (again), and we were pulling out of a service station. A couple of cars were coming up from the left. Had it been me, I would have scooted on out, and gone about our business. However, my wife made the decision to let them go by; before pulling out behind them. Now, Jean and I made our way across a railroad track, and now about thirty feet in front of us, a utility truck stopped at a stop sign; perhaps rather too quickly, because now, a 20 foot long aluminum ladder sailed off the top of the vehicle, and across our line of sight! Grace, Grace, God's Grace! It occurred to both of us. Had my wife not stopped to allow traffic to go by, (or had I been driving), that ladder, and two aging travelers would have intersected, and the former would have entered the passenger window, and exited the driver's window, in turn decapitating each of us!

About seven years ago, I was serving as staff counselor at a residential center for women who had been newly released from prison. Our resident bedrooms were upstairs, and it was not unusual for me to assist our ladies with their personal possessions. A new house mother was moving in, and I grabbed her duffle bag, (the kind with strings, not straps), and I proceeded to climb the staircase. Unfortunately, I threw it over my right shoulder which left me holding the bag, and not the banister. Steps one through four. Check. Ninety degree angle at the landing. Check. Steps five through eight. Check. Now, however, it all (literally) began to fall apart! Either the bag was heavier than I expected, or my legs were weaker, but I began to lose my balance. The duffle bag went first. Off it went, and fell to the floor, below. I took a somewhat different route. I found myself falling backwards! Step Eight, Step Seven, Step Six, Step Five. Check. And whereas, I should have crashed, and come to a painful rest on the landing, I didn't! By now, I had gained too much momentum, and I found myself completing a reverse 90 degree angle. Check.

 I was only half done! Step four. Step three. Step two. Step one. Check. And now, and only now, I landed with a sickening thud on the ground floor. (Check)! Whereas, I should have been paralyzed, or dead, I was neither! Now, having heard my impressive 220 pounds "hit the deck," the house administrator appeared. "Don't get up! Don't get up!" But I did! Only the new house mother saw my calamitous fall. She told me later that it was the most violent thing she had ever witnessed. 

What I have described to you here represents some, but not nearly all of my "almosts;" which God saw fit to grant to me during the course of my life. I cannot account for having experienced more "almosts" than some people might have experienced in five lifetimes. However, as I review the stories which I have previously shared with you, I notice that out of six accounts, four of the events can be attributed to abject carelessness. And the other two were simply circumstantial in nature, my wife was the primary party, and I was "just along for the ride." (Do we see a trend here)? 

I plead guilty. I'm just a dangerous kinda guy! Always have been. (Hope, I won't always be). However, where does this leave us in terms of those among us who have not been blessed with even one "almost?" I simply can't account for it. 

I think of my high school classmates who were deprived of long, satisfying, meaningful lives. One young lady, a minister's daughter, a person of potential. She was 60 seconds from home. A rainy night. Coming back from a date, her boyfriend turned into what he thought was the entrance to her subdivision; only to bottom out in a deep, rain-swollen ditch. The young man lived. My dear classmate didn't. "Julie" was only 17. She was not granted even one "almost." 

The closest I have ever come to a possible "heads or tails" to it all is something I once read about the subject. Short of the person who knowingly takes unnecessary risks, or chooses to take their own life, I think one scripture, in particular, rings true. 

"My times are in His hands." (Psalm 31:15)

In regard to the previous paragraph, given the disclaimers I mentioned, and import of this scripture, whomever philosophized about the topic said,

"When a young person dies, it was foreknown, and approved by the Creator, and it was simply their time. They had simply lived out their appointed days on the earth."

Somehow, it seems God has provided me, and many others far too many "almosts," and not nearly enough "almosts" to many others. There is something which rings so unfair about it. However, I think as long as we live here, we must be grateful for each new day which He has granted to us, and wait patiently for a better explanation; which may only be available on the other side of eternity.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

THAT'S THE WAY IT IS

 4567

Father Mychal Judge, (Catholic) chaplain of the New York City Fire Department, shared the following words with members of that department the day before the September 11, 2001 attack on the World Trader Centers. He died on that fateful day when debris fell upon him from one of the buildings. What he had to say seems so metaphoric of the lives of any and all of us who wish to make a difference in lives.

"That's the way it is. Good days, bad days, up days, down days, sad days, happy days. But never a boring day on this job. You do what God has called you to do.

"You show up, and put one foot ahead of the other. You get on the rig, and go, but the job is a mystery and a surprise. You have no idea when you get on that rig. No matter how big the call, no matter how small, you have no idea what God is calling you to do.

"But He needs you. He needs me. He needs all of us. He needs our prayers. He needs you stopping by on occasion to give strength and support. To tell the story of the old days, (and how He has brought you through)!

"Keep going. Keep supporting each other. Be kind to each other. Love each other. Work together in the months and years ahead. From this house God's blessings go forth to this community.

"What great people you are! You love the job. We all do. What a blessing that is. What a blessing that is. It's a different job to which you have been called, and He calls you to do that different job well.

"Isn't He a wonderful God? Isn't He good to you? Each one of you, and to me. Turn to Him each day with your faith, and trust, and your life in His hands, and He will take care of you. And you will have a good life, and you will be a great blessing to those who He sets in your pathway."

AMBIDEXTROUS ME

 4566

I have been hard at it for thirty-five years. (Yeah, I have).

I think anyone who devotes thirty-five years to anything enjoys what he does, or he wouldn’t do it. Either that, or he must be a glutton for punishment, (or someone is holding him captive).

I confess. I love making a difference in lives. I have literally “sat with” multiplied thousands of people. (Odd, I suddenly realize I haven’t told you what I have been doing the past thirty-five years).

I am a marriage and family counselor

But to digress a bit

In my day and time, every elementary age child was taught to write in cursive. Of course, the children of the late 20^th and current 21^st centuries learn to write their names in cursive, but that’s the jest of it.

Beyond that, well there is no “beyond that,” they learn to write only their names in that archaic style of applying words to paper. Speaking of the new “beyond that,” they simply print what they wish to relay to an interested eye, or they sit down at a computer keyboard. (I wouldn’t want you to think I am incapable of having mastered that particular genre, as I learned to type in the Air Force, and can still knock out 80-100 words per minute).

Pt. 2

However, as you might imagine, I don’t bring my laptop computer into the counseling office with me. Honestly, I never have even thought about doing so ‘til just now. But somehow, I think sitting there talking with a client about their personal history and issues, and pecking out words on a computer wouldn’t mix that well, i.e. “Tell me about the day your Aunt Marilla died” (I look down. Peck, peck, peck). “Okay. How did you respond when your husband ran off with another woman?” (I look down again. Peck, peck, peck). Rather impersonal, I think.

But as I have implied, I take notes. Lots and lots of notes. During that first session in particular. And since I am a question asker, I am liable to get an answer for virtually every question. And since I ask 101 questions in that first session, and receive a minimum of 100 answers, I fill up lots of unlined paper with my almost indecipherable handwriting. (Sometimes indecipherable to even me).

I suppose it happened about a third of the way through my current tenure of three decades behind the counseling desk. (Well, honestly, I don’t sit at a desk. Just two chairs facing one another).

I began to think about giving my dominant writing hand a break. I would learn to use my non-dominant (left) hand. And thus, I began to practice writing with a hand with which I had only pulled a trigger in the past. (I can’t explain why, but I have always fired a rifle left-handed).

At any rate, the more I used my non-dominant hand, the better I became with it. However, the more I used my left hand, the poorer my right-handed brand of cursive became, until it was almost illegible.

I can’t account for it, but it was almost like I had rewired my brain. The hand that never had any particular acuity was suddenly the legible hand, and the hand with which I first learned to write was becoming increasingly unstable. Unless I bore down on the paper, my dominant hand shook, (and the resulting “hen scratches” were vivid proof of it).

Pt. 3

But even more “strange and wonderful,” the difference between my dominant and non-dominant brand of cursive was incredible. I was used to looking at my right-handed style of writing. I had been stuck with it for just short of half a century. It was to say the least pretty “plain Jane” in appearance. However, I didn’t recognize my left-handed brand of committing words to paper. It was almost feminine in appearance, and it reminded me somewhat of calligraphy. Granted, I have never been as fast with my left hand, but then I had never experienced any ineptness with my right hand, (as I did now).

Some of my clients have been confused as they have watched me put words to paper. As they have joined me on Day One, and before I did “the old switcheroo” in the middle of the session, he or she has quipped, “You don’t turn your hand inward like other left-handed writers.” To which, barely looking up, I have always responded, “That’s because I’m not left-handed.” Of course, that has always elicited a “hmmm” or “I see.” (When they really didn’t).

It was only after a few minutes, and I have moved the pen to my dominant hand that they have really “gotten it.” And at that point I would announce, “I taught myself to write with both hands.” (and) “It makes writing the answers to 101 questions a bit easier.”

I prefer my “fancy-dancy” style of cursive to that uninformed, archaic, grade school brand of writing. And though my wife thinks me a bit eccentric for having changed hands, she grudgingly admits the fancy-dancy cursive is so much easier to decipher.

 

But if the truth be told, I think my (relatively) new found ambidexterity makes the first counseling session a bit more interesting to counselor and client alike.

by William McDonald, PhD