FIFA World Cup 2014 Semi-Final, Argentina vs Netherlands, São Paulo, 9th

July. L-R: Georginio Wijnaldum, Nigel de Jong, Lionel Messi and Ron Vlaargive chase. Photograph: Ronald Martinez/Getty Images.

KIT – The Keep In Touch NewsletterVolume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

The KIT Newsletter editorial staff welcomes all suggested contributions for publication in theNewsletter from subscribers and readers, but whether a given submission meets the criteria for

publication is at the sole discretion of the editors. While priority will be given to original contributionsby people with past Bruderhof connections, any letters, articles or reports which the editors deem to beof historical or personal interest or to offer new perspectives on issues of particular relevance to the ex-

Bruderhof Newsletter readership, may be included as well. The editors may suggest to the authorschanges to improve their presentation.

Have you made your KIT Newsletter subscription/donation payment this year?Please find details on the last page.

CONTENTS:Football, by Philip Hazelton. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1Spring Creek Valley, by George Maendel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2Mount Etna – Sicily, by Joy MacDonald. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5Memories of Primavera: tonsil extractions, by Elisabeth Bohlken-Zumpe. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6When it Rains it Pours, by Melchior Fros. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9Josef and Ivy Stängl, by Amanda Gurganus. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Remembering our dear ones who have passed from this life:Turquoise in Ashes – Greta Milam, 5 May 2014, by Raphael Vowles.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15James Leroy Bernard, May 6, 2014, by Christina and Anita Bernard.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15Remembrance of Jim Bernard, by Roberta Llewellyn, May 31st, 2014.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

A Note from the Editor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18Contact Details of Volunteers who Produce the KIT Newsletter.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

Football by Philip Hazelton, 25 June 2014I believe the great Brazilian soccerartists seemed to have little need forad hominids of any kind; or ismemory playing tricks on me? I lovethe artistry of this game which Ilearned so early to play well backwhen Eric Phillips was IslaMargarita school's sports coach andtrainer. Man, if I heard a ball bouncesomewhere on the Hof my leg wouldcome up by itself. I was put incharge very early of maintaining theschool soccer balls (big heavyleather sheathes with a cantankerousbladder inside and a wretched tubeyou had to tie up well and then fold

KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

The Creek

into the sheath). I would spend Mittagstunden [siestas] re-sewing these balls, greasing and getting themplay ready. And, oh, did I enjoy playing this beautiful game. I liked playing full or half back (terms thathave disappeared from the game, I believe) because I could observe the game while also playing it. Nextbest was the right wing. Ah, for a perfect cross pass to the center forward (striker?) who then pounded itinto the goal with speed and precision!

Yes, those soccer (football; futibol) games in front of the Coffee Wood or under the trees of IslaMargarita's lovely school wood, brought so much joy and sense of achievement into our youthful bodies.Now, if I kick, the ball trickles for a few meters and usually in the wrong direction. Damn age and agingand decrepitude! Thank heaven there is the World Cup which is the only tournament to get me in front ofa TV screen for as much as two hours; together with great neighbors (Hans Buhrmann, German; PhilippeFrancois, Belgian; Peter Sherrington, British) who also grew up with and love the game, all rinsed downwith one or two ... of home brew beer.

Spring Creek Valleyby George Maendel, Spar Ridge Farm, Unity, MaineOnce, when I was younger, and a man named Jimmy Carter was running for President, I lived with mygirlfriend Kerri at a farm site in a river valley in central Tennessee where my sister and her husband hadbought a large tract of land, much of it very steep, but there were also rich and level meadows, hand clearedby pioneers along a winding river flowing in the center of a sometimes narrow valley. The house at thefarm site where we had set up camp had burned down many years before, leaving only traces, but there wasa large, skeletal barn and a rainproof corn crib, built, it seemed to me, exactly to specifications publishedin a US Department of Agriculture how-to brochure. It was a drive-through design with a central dirt floorhallway, wide enough for a team of horses and wagon. On either side were bins with solid wooden floorsand sides of slatted wood, leaving plenty of room for air circulation. A generous roof covered the wholestructure. It was called an ear corn drying and storage crib which “Can be built with usual farm labor ina matter of days,” while the corn was ripening, presumably. We had reworked one of the bins to serve asbedroom, the other was our kitchen, work area and livingroom, as we worked to add a floor to the drivethrough part, all on a level with the bedroom and kitchen.

Our nearest neighbour downstream wasa woman named Arizona Lynn, agedsixty-six, who lived alone at a farm sitemuch like ours, but with an intact house.She had been caring for her farm alone forten years, ever since her husband died.

“Don’t know why he had to go,” shesaid, “he was four years younger than I.”

She sometimes hired me for odd jobs,like cleaning out sheep pens. Two dollarsan hour was the agreed upon wage, but weusually traded for eggs or vegetables fromher garden.

“I just love watching a man work,” shesaid, as I made quick work of cleaning outa pen.

She was endlessly fascinated by us andby the other young people (known tolocals as hippies) who were moving backinto the narrow and steep river valleys, a new breed of homesteaders.

“Is the world coming to its senses, after all,” she wondered.

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

The Waterfall

She told us of the exodus she had been watching for decades, as families, one after another, left the steepvalleys for life and work in towns, or at least to live up on the heights; anything but those snake-filledvalleys where the sun was late in the morning or it was over the hill too soon in the afternoon.

Arizona said, “It was not something we ever thought to complain about, as long as we had rich bottomland for pasture, for gardens and for crops. We considered it God’s pocket, here along the river, but peopledon’t seem to see it any more, except for this new tribe, and God bless them!” To Arizona, we representedsome sort of resurrection.

While talking to her, I learned where to buy the floor planks I needed for the center part of our newhome. There was a sawmill one town to the east that specialized in providing oak boards to a flooring mill.Boards which didn’t make the grade could be bought for not much money.

“Take cash and don’t ask for a receipt.”With those instructions I drove to the mill in the only conveyance on the farm, a one-and-a-half ton

Dodge dump truck. I found the grading area, introduced myself and told the man what I needed. I hadmoney right handy, saying as I handed it to him: “I want one hundred dollars worth of seconds.”

Less than perfect boards is what I expected. He directed me to a pile of recently cut but not yet gradedboards.

“Load as many as you need fromthere,” he said.

I filled the truck with what I thought Icould safely haul, considering that therewas one steep hill to negotiate on the wayhome. Lucky for me, it was downhill intothe valley and not up, as the old truckmight not have hauled the heavy loaduphill without burning out the alreadyweak clutch.

Early next morning, we heard the soundof a vehicle pull up right behind the stillloaded truck. Oops, I thought, as I grabbedpants and a shirt, I hope it isn’t the Sherifflooking for a wood thief.

It was Arizona’s brother. He wanted toknow where I had found the load oflumber. I told him the story and he askedto buy a few planks, enough for a new

floor on an old farm trailer he was repairing. We pulled out six that were each about a foot wide and longenough for his trailer. He asked if he could pay me with moonshine. I agreed. He said he would stop in nexttime he was in the area. And he informed me that no one, but no one could buy such a load of lumber asI had for the price I had paid.

“Better keep that transaction under your hat,” he said. “Someone at the mill gave you a Welcome toTennessee gift, at the expense of the company that owns the mill.”

Once I learned to drill before nailing, the planks made a solid floor. I had more than enough, even aftertrading a few for moonshine, which arrived early one Sunday morning, a quart jar full of a clear liquid, likewater, but with a different, almost oily viscosity. I had to taste it of course, and I could certainly feel theheat of it, all the way to my empty stomach, but I passed the test by not choking.

Spring Creek, the name of the river in the valley center, is not far from the farm site, and a tributarystream runs right through the farmyard. This stream, called a branch in Tennessee, divided into two a fewhundred feet uphill from our corn crib. The right branch had waterfalls which I had often visited. The leftbranch was due east but I had not explored very far in that direction, because there was no clear path. I hadbeen told there was a pretty waterfall on that stream as well, but getting to it was difficult.

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

The Waterfall

One day I decided to find the east branch waterfall and set off with determination. In places, the steeprocky sides of the ravine leave a person with two choices: walk in the stream, or find a way up the steeprocky walls to walk in the forest, which in places was thick with brambles, sometimes full of thorns. Ipowered my way through the forest and down the ravine, wondering what sort of waterfall I would findat the end of my journey, which was beginning to seem very long. Finally I heard the water and then I wasthere, and it was indeed a beautiful scene, the air cool and moist, as I stood near enough to wash and to cooloff a bit.

Having made it all the way, I decided to climb out of the ravine once more, to see the falls from the top,where trees grow on both sides, firmly anchored among the rocks. On the branch of a tree which reachedtoward the water, a bird had built a nest, just inches from the rock ledge where the water begins to fall. Ididn’t have a camera or a smart phone in my pocket but that picture has stayed with me ever since.

There is a word for the durability of that bird nest image in my mind; it is for me a meme which is: “Anidea, behaviour or style that spreads fromperson to person within a culture and actsas a unit for carrying cultural ideas,symbols or practices that can betransmitted from one mind to anotherthrough writing, speech, gestures, rituals,or other imitable phenomena.”

The bird’s nest and its location seemedto me the ideal I was striving toward inconverting the corn crib, and my load ofoak boards were like the twigs used tobuild the nest by the waterfall. Our goalswere nearly identical: a home, with a viewof the world and with access to water. Ialso sought to recognize and embrace aplace and to build a home. And I havedone so more than once, kind of the way abird does, year after year.

My earliest memory of seeking shelterwas at another river valley, in North Dakota, while caring for a flock of ducklings. The late spring weatherwas mild and we had guided and followed a flock of ducklings to a grazing area in a wide ravine whereearly spring grass was plentiful and where there was flowing water and a small pond. As we were watchingover them, it began to rain which the ducklings didn’t mind, but we looked around for shelter and soonfound the body of an old automobile. The seats were long gone, but it was quite roomy, and seekers beforeus had hauled things in to sit on, old buckets and planks for benches. Once inside, we were dry, entertainedby the sound of rain on the metal roof, and we could just see the pond without leaving our shelter.

Not long after that experience we extended our idea of shelter by digging into a north facing riverbank,ten minutes by foot from the house where my family lived and where boys were not allowed duringdaytime hours, except for a short afternoon snack, always at three o’clock. By half past, tea was over andwe were out the door again. We crossed the river, a strategy to keep younger children from following us.There were trees which made our efforts less visible, most important to the success of our endeavor. Fourof us shared the digging with one shovel. While one person was digging, those of us waiting were busygathering materials; boards and tin to cover our shelter once it gained the dimensions we thought weneeded. There had been a farm in this area for generations, so it was easy to find “junk”. We found sturdyboards borrowed from a pile the men had made when they took down an old barn, and we found used tinsheets and even a small wood or coal burning stove, a real prize, which we hauled about half a mile in atwo wheeled wagon. When no one was watching, of course. We soon had a cozy shelter, complete with

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

Keeping an eye on Etna from the hotel window

For sense of scale: There are people on the pinnacle, possiblyprofessional guides or volcanologists, silhouetted near the very top, an

area out of bounds to visitors because of Etna’s activity.

stove and chimney pipe. On a shelf carved into the wall near the stove we had a box of matches. Printedin bold letters on the side of the box were the words: “STRIKE ANYWHERE.”

Mount Etna – Sicilyby Joy MacDonaldMy daughter Fiona and I spent a week in Sicily recently. We had booked into a very unusual hotel builtusing the natural steep contours between Taormina and the Mediterranean Sea. The grounds are vast butspread around interlocking distinct areas of different heights. The seawater infinity pool is perched rightup against the cliff face with it’s sheer drop to the sea. The secluded beach can be reached by a lift and thenthrough a vast subtly lit corridor of rough-hewn honey coloured rock, or by taking a steep pathway whichzigzags through landscaped gardens and natural vegetation all the way down past the Jacuzzi and infinitypool to the beach.

Mount Etna had a minor eruption theday before we arrived, closing the airporttemporarily, and as darkness descended onour first evening, glowing red rivulets oflava and puffing steam cloudlets wereaccompanied by the setting suncontributing its own beautiful hues, whilecoastal villages twinkled as their lightsappeared all along the fringes of land andsea. Magical.

Three days later it was considered safeenough for us to join an Etna all dayexcursion, first visiting the BotanicalGardens and Alcantara Gorge, a narrowslit in the rocks with the river runningthrough, almost seventy metres below. Along, very steep zigzag path brought usdown to where we could admire the high

waterfall as it tumbled and rushed through the gorge. We then boarded the Ferrovia Curcumetnea trainwhich travelled around the lower slopes.

At one-thousand metres is the SouthStation, a busy touristy area with coachand car parks, many eateries and souvenirshops. From there we took the cable car,straight up the by now very steepmountainside, with incredible views ofcraters covered in lava ash whereunderneath, snow could be glimpsed. Atthree-thousand metres we disembarkedand clambered into what could bedescribed as minibuses on tractor wheels,four foot in diameter, to allow them toplough their way over thick unstable ashand boulders, zigzagging to the very rimof Etna which, at three-thousand-three-hundred-and-thirty metres, is the largestactive volcano in Europe. Here wealighted and were guided around a side

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

The walk behind the summit, just below the top and safely away fromEtna’s craters which were spewing lava, ash and steam. Here, looking

down at stragglers

crater (because Etna’s main crater was still grumbling, as were a couple of new side vents lower down theopposite slope to where we were walking).

By now, it was very cold and the wind blew fiercely and erratically, which at times felt quite scary whenthe pathway narrowed between twosteeply sloping craters. Then back down tothe South Station, where we reconnectedwith our coach and returned the last thirtymiles down through tiny villages andfarmsteads, where the very fertile soilmakes this an exceptional area to growfruit, nuts, grains and vegetables, thoughwith the ever present knowledge that it isEtna who will, as she always has, dictatethe wisdom of cultivating her life-givingbounty. Indeed, we saw several previouslyabandoned villages and half buriedbuildings.

Back at the hotel, we had a relaxingswim while gazing at Etna, thanking herfor giving us such an enjoyable lovelylong day.

Memories of Primavera: tonsil extractions – Paraguay in the 1950'sby Elisabeth Bohlken-ZumpeBetween 1940 and 1960, the Bruderhof, who came to South America from war-torn Europe, built andestablished three beautiful villages in the middle of the jungle. With only four-hundred men, women andchildren, they started out on the experiment of living a life of brotherly love and Christianity, sharing allthings in common, with an aim to build the Kingdom of God on earth and establish a place of peace. Theywere successful. By 1960, their numbers had reached around two-thousand.

I was six years old when we arrived in Paraguay, and eighteen when I returned to England for a nurse’straining in view of my future at the hospital in Primavera, Paraguay.

It had been a prime necessity to build a hospital for our own people: children, pregnant women, babies,and for treating general sicknesses, and accidents that always seemed to happen while working the landfull of wild animals, including poisonous snakes. Soon, though, word spread, and the locals came from nearand far asking for our help, as there were no other doctors in the area. They came on horseback, on foot,carrying their small children, or by horse and wagon, travelling long distances. Over the years, our hospitaldeveloped into a beautiful mission hospital which served not only our own people but also the Mennonitesin the settlements nearby as well as the locals travelling sometimes for days in the heat, across campos(prairie) and jungles.

We had three doctors: Dr. Cyril Davies, Dr. Ruth Land and Dr. Margaret Stern, and there always wasa fourth doctor from the outside world who wanted to learn and practice the treatment of tropical diseases.From 1948 to 1952 this was a Russian, Dr. Juri Popov, who later became the first doctor to work in thenewly built Mennonite hospital in neighbouring Friesland. From 1952 to 1954 we had a German doctor,Dr. Walter, and in 1954 an American, Dr. Milton Zimmerman, who came to Primavera from the UnitedStates to do his alternative military service. We had a laboratory, a chemist, nurses and personnel attendingthe primitive kitchen and sterilisation facilities for the operation equipment. There were operation andisolation rooms, and a good maternity home.

Most of the treatments were performed at our own hospital, from appendix operations to shotgunwounds, tropical sores, internal diseases, hookworm, tapeworm, ringworm, uras – a worm infection from

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

Travelling by Wagon

Asunción street market scene

flies laying their eggs in open sores – and sand-fleas, snake-bites and other diseases such as leprosy,malaria and more. A team was always on standby, and devoted Community members were able to run thishospital much like Albert Schweizer’s hospital in Lambarene, Africa.

There were just a couple of operationsour doctors felt unable to perform. Thesewere cholecystectomies, or the surgicalremoval of gall stones; for such surgeries,a small one-engine aeroplane would bechartered to get the patient to Asunción,the capital of Paraguay, as fast as possible;neither did they perform tonsillectomies.Many of us children had the ever returningstrep throats, treated by gargles withpotassium of permanganate or stipplingour tonsils with a small brush dipped ingentian violet. Antibiotics were not heardof in those years, at least not in Primavera.

Being selected to go to the capital forthis operation seemed like a birthday

present and was indeed very exciting. We never got away from our settlement and had little idea of whatto expect in the big wide world.

At the end of October 1950, three of us were chosen: Jan, one of our teachers, who had suffered frommalaria and tropical diseases; myself, aged fifteen, and Hannabeth, a girl two or three years younger.

We left early one morning on a wagon drawn by two horses, as our truck had broken down and neededrepairing. The mornings were always the best and most beautiful part of the day. A little chilly, while thesun rose in beautiful colours behind the lapacho trees and silvery leaves of the palm trees swinging backand forth in the wind. We two girls were happy and excited, seeing lovely wild flowers, beautiful colouredbirds, butterflies, and here and there groups of ostriches or rheas feeding in the campo. As the day passedour horses carried us bravely up and down the bumpy mud and sand road, farther and farther away fromhome. We made only short stops to rest and water the horses while we had some maté and galletas(Paraguayan tea and small hard white balls of bread), a treat for us. It was a hot day, but we did reachPuerto Rosario, the small harbour on the Paraguay river, in time for the evening boat to take us down riverto Asunción.

Early the next morning we reached thecapital, and there was a Brother from theBruderhof House to meet us. In those dayswe had no truck or car in the city, but itwas a great experience to walk through thewaking city with its cars, buses, donkeys,horses and lots of people going to theearly morning market to buy fruit andvegetables. The smells of vegetables, fruit,flowers, cars and the sun on the pavedstreets were a completely new experiencefor us.

We were welcomed at the BruderhofHouse with a delicious late breakfast offreshly made coffee, fresh bread, and hugetomatoes, better than anything we had everhad in Primavera. The smells of the city,

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

The Aurora River Steamer in the 1950's

the noise of the cars, the streets paved with cobble stones and the stonewalled rooms at the BruderhofHouse we were brought into were sheer joy and excitement.

That evening we were allowed only a light semolina pudding for supper, as the operations were plannedfor the next day. The following morning, Hannabeth and I got up, put on our best Sunday dresses andcarefully plaited our braids for this special day. We had to take a towel along, did not know for what. Dr.Margaret Stern brought us to the Sanatorio Mayo and wished us well, saying she would come to take ushome again late afternoon.

Like all houses in the city, there were steps leading from the street and pavement to a door set in an allsurrounding wall. As we stepped inside, we saw an open patio with several doors leading off it intodifferent hospital rooms. There was a queue of some fifteen to twenty men, women and children waitingin the sun for their turn. At the end of the patio there was a small surgery from which we could hear thescreams of operation victims, which was not very encouraging and made my heart thump against my ribs.

The queue to the door got smaller and our turn came closer. Every now and then we saw a bleedingvictim leave the back door and the first in the row would be welcomed into the little surgery. Thescreaming, which had been so frightening, stopped for a short while, during which the assistant led ableeding, coughing and crying patient to a wooden plank bed on the open veranda and we saw that personbeing put to rest on his or her left side, everybody next to each other, but feeling too sick to notice. Nextcame the screams of the latest victim, ever harder and louder as we approached the surgery door.

It was Jan’s turn first, as he was faint from the sun and his empty stomach, then Hannabeth’s, whosehand I had held tight for her and my own sake.

Then it was my turn to be ushered into the surgery by two assistants who quickly wrapped abloodstained sheet tight around my body, including my arms. I was made to sit in a chair and big, heavy,friendly looking Dr. Inseraldo sat himself right in front of me, his right thigh against my left thigh and hisleft thigh along my right thigh and his belly somewhere in between. I was frantic with fear, but had no timeto get lost in that feeling, as a mouth gag was placed between my upper and lower jaw and a kidney shapeddish placed on my lap. Dr. Inseraldo put a little gadget with a sharp iron loop into my open mouth. He putthe loop around the tonsil, pulled back the gadget and caught and cut the tonsil, pulling it out like a tooth,as it fell into the dish on my lap. I screamed, as every one had done, not thinking of the poor people in thequeue as they neared the door of horror. Iwas trying to kick, but the sheet aroundme was pulled too tight. I wanted to saythat the other tonsil had never hurt me atall, but with the same procedure thesecond horrid tonsil fell into the kidney-dish on my lap. I was cleaned up from thespattered blood and given a piece of ice tokeep in my mouth and suck on, while thegood surgeon cleaned his glasses for thenext patients to come. It was a matter of afew minutes, not more. After that I wasfreed from the big sheet around me andcarefully led to lie next to those helpedbefore me, all with their cheeks on theirtowel, groaning, moaning and finally tooexhausted for further reactions.

Hannabeth looked all messy as theblood kept running out of her mouth, butI had too much to do keeping myself from howling.

I had no idea how long we were lying there, but Dr. Inseraldo checked on his patients before he left andtold the assistants when each one was to go home. In a little while, Dr. Margaret Stern arrived with a kind

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

The Lorry

Agarita Garage

and encouraging smile and a thermos flask full of pieces of ice. We were allowed to sit up and recoversomewhat before walking back to the Bruderhof House, resting on benches on the way, sucking on icewhich Margaret had put into a flannel for us, as it was all a bit messy. The sun was high, but we stoppedunder shady trees, as we were in no hurry to get back to the Bruderhof House.

I think we stayed something like three days in Asuncion, at least while waiting for a radio messagesaying that the Bruderhof truck had been repaired and was ready to hit the bad roads to Puerto Rosarioagain.

For our return trip, the BruderhofHouse had hired a cabin for Hannabethand me on the river steamer, while Jan hada blanket to lie down on, up on deck.Hannabeth was asleep soon while I satwith her. I placed my small piece ofluggage on the top bunk bed and went tocheck on Jan, to see if he was alright. Hewas rolled up in his blanket with his coatunder his head, fast asleep. I looked at thebeautiful starlit sky and the shadows of thecoastline passing on both sides of theriver. When I returned to our cabin, a hugeParaguayan lady – at least she seemedhuge to me – was snoring away on mybunk bed. I poked her gently to tell herthat this was my bed, but she had her face

to the wall and would not move. I did not dare poke her again and went to the front of the boat, leaningagainst some poles next to Jan and waiting for the night to pass.

Early morning back in the Rosario harbour, there was indeed our truck, which had to be loaded withsacks of flower, maté, sugar and other items for Primavera that were being unloaded from the river boat.While poor Jan sat in the cabin of the truck nodding away sadly, Hannabeth and I found a place on theloaded sacks of foodstuffs and other goods, stretched our tired limbs, and soon were asleep on the evermoving, hobbling, rocking and bumping old truck over the pot-holed, sandy, muddy roads, happy to reachour home safe and sound late that evening.

Although this operation was pretty horrid, I must say, none of us or anybody else I knew ever had anycomplications, and soon recovered, to pick up school again.

When it Rains it Poursby Melchior Fros, San Antonio, Texas, Jan 2012The sky is overcast today. The parched ground is crying from thirst.Maverick saunters by and I call to her. She meows her morning greetingand continues her hunt for breakfast. A stray dog comes along, and shescurries up a tree, tail fluffed, fangs bared, and claws dug deeply into thetree branch, to which she clings for dear life!

Today Daniel and I will proceed in timely fashion, installing two over-head garage doors on a garage that was built about the time I was born…I think. My hope is dashed when droplets the size of elephant ears beginto fall on my neck; wet, isolated plunks… first here… then there… theneverywhere. “Daniel, let’s get a tarp up before we are soaked to thebone”, I cry out. “You grab the washer-head screws and the driver, andI’ll hold the 2x4s in place, ok?” In short order we erect a half decent rain

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

Rain Tarp

Christmas Eve Meal

The Finished Garage Door

barrier across the front of the small, two-carstructure. Daniel digs, lays and levels two 4x6treated posts into the pebbled soil. They’ll serveas “door sills”… don’t laff! Later, the ownerwill throw a bed or gravel on the inside andmake something more useful out of a musty,dusty dirt floor. Meanwhile, I work on thebeams above the doors.

This garage was probably built in hop-gallopfashion, Texas style. A perimeter bed of 4x6cypress beams lies on the ground; covered witha protective layer of tin. Walls consist ofunevenly spaced studs, covered with 8”exposure cypress siding boards. A non-descript,multi-pitched hip roof rests awkwardly atop thewalls. Two 8’ wide swinging doors, badly

listing on corroded hinges, enclose the structure. I’m guessing it was builtin two days, ending with a neighborhood fiesta. Maybe they had the partyfirst, with lots of Dos Equis…who knows? And here we are, twoMidwestern carpenters -carpenter ants with attitude- trying to salvage thestructure. With only basic digging tools and lots of spit we attempt to bustthrough the edges of a concrete footer in the center of thegarage…and…um…we’re making no progress!

Daniel suggests I use my baby sledge hammer, but it hardly puts a dentinto the aged concrete. Out comes my trusty grinder with a mean-lookingstone-cutting blade attached. The dust swirls and shrapnel flies. Danielpasses me a dust mask and takes a couple of deep breaths between cuts.About 15 filthy minutes and two heads of gray hair later, we have two beamslaid and leveled. Whoooo! “Boy, we’ll have to charge properly for this,” myson moans. I throw him a wicked laugh. Meanwhile the rain cometh downin torrents!

I have not installed an overhead garage door in 30 odd years, and it takesa while to get the gazillion parts properly assembled but, as night falls and the workman’s day is over, one

garage door is up; not operable, mind you, butup! We climb through an escape hole in thecenter wall, grab odd 2x4s and sheets of junk,and close up the other half of the garage. Itcontains a few valuables that most thieves inthis area would be only too happy to lift.

The Aussie Open is under way. Daniel tellsme that Maria grunts too loudly! Serena isslowed by injury. Mom Kim has resumed hertennis carrier and is doing mighty fine. Rafa,The Joker and King Roger are winning asexpected. We’re eating a veggie supper whilewatching our fav players. Both of us driftasleep in our armchairs. There’s no tellin’ ifthis is due to tiredness, two glasses of ‘hol, or

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

Melchior with his son Daniel Jan

both….. but at 10 pm I schlep my bod onto the air mattress that serves as my bed, and drift off.In my dream I hear voices. They are talking about me in front of my back while I’m driving! “Boy, did

he even see the car that narrowly missed broad-siding us?” an incredulous Ken asks Daniel. From hispassenger seat Daniel replies, “I don’t think the old Mann saw it; he does not even know how lucky hesometimes is. I’ve pleaded with my dad to take care! You see, Ken, he’s an aggressive driver; hardly evercoming to a full stop, pushing yellow lights, and generally zooming from one place to another.” “He shouldpay attention to his driving and not turn to talk to us”, a flustered Ken yells from the back of the van, wherehe sits on a turned-over bucket. “Oh, I’ve told him so manytimes…but you have to remember he’s deaf; he can’t chat anddrive as you and I can. And when my dad has something burningon his mind, there is no stopping him…plus, he likes to makeeye contact. If you don’t make eye contact with him he thinksyou are not listening! And, by the way, he has a clean drivingrecord. That says something.” Daniel grins.

Suddenly I’m awakened from my dream by a brilliant bolt ofvirgin lightning… and thunder…rumbling, roaring crashingthunder, such as even a deaf man heareth! I look through thewindow and torrents of rain, inch upon inch, 4 inches in all,quench the thirsting ground, while bolts of lightning scare thebejeebers out of Maverick.

Next morning it is quiet; the sort of stillness that follows a Noahkian downpour. The sun vainly tries todry out wet clouds. Down the street the spill way is clogged with branches and trash, and workers aredesperately trying to unclog what resembles an urban beaver dam.

It’s a fresh day!

Josef and Ivy Stänglby Amanda GurganusMy father was born in Landau, Germany, in 1911. From early on, his life was harsh and frightening. Hetold us stories of airplanes shooting at their house and about being afraid to go near the train stationbecause the communists had taken it over and there was gunfire. War and the hardships of the time madelife difficult, especially for a five- or six-year-old boy.

Papa’s parents were divorced. Papa was awarded to his father, while his brother and sister went withhis mother. Their situation was difficult because of his father’s job. He was a baker and had to be at workat half past two in the small hours of the morning. This left little time to watch over Papa.

Because Papa was not attended to properly, he spent time on the streets of Munich rather than inkindergarten. He was often at the stables playing with the horses rather than attending school. I do notrecall any stories about Papa playing with other boys or having any toys, so perhaps the times he spent withthe horses were the only times he was happy as a child.

Papa tells us that when he was about eight years old his father took him to meet a man at a train station,then gave him a little bag with some cherries, and said goodbye. He had never seen this man before whowas to be his guardian, as his father was unable to both work and take care of Papa.

This man, his guardian, took Papa and two other boys and placed them in a Catholic boarding school.Papa didn’t see his mother then for three or four years.

Life in the boarding school was very hard and strict. The meals consisted of a half slice of bread, apotato and some barley coffee. The school lessons were also very strict and severe. Whenever Papa mademistakes ! and they were more than a few ! he would be whipped with a stick. When the whistle blew theywere to respond quickly, and if they were not quick enough, they had to run up and down a rather longdistance, eight or ten times.

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

It was from that boarding school that his mother “rescued” him and took him home with her. However,the stay with his mother was short-lived, as his stepfather was not in agreement with her taking Papa in.

After that, Papa lived with other relatives, and tried to find a vocation that suited him. He tried to be atailor and he tried to be a baker. As a teenager of about sixteen, neither choice was easy, but he ended upas a baker, and an excellent one at that.

For the next few years Papa wandered around working at whatever jobs he could find (mainly, hewanted to roam through Germany, not really wanting to settle on a career). It was then, when Papa waseighteen, that he discovered the Bruderhof Community. Papa thought that at last he had found what he hadbeen searching for his entire life. Until then the only “Christianity” he had witnessed was in the strictCatholic boarding school. Papa was instantly drawn to the people, who became his family for the rest ofhis life. Papa joined the Rhön Bruderhof on January 14, 1930, but it was not long before the politicalatmosphere in Germany became not only difficult, but dangerous for anyone who did not follow AdolphHitler.

The Bruderhof Community was pressured to put Nazis in charge of their school. Of course they couldn’tagree, so in November of 1933, one-hundred-and-forty SS and Gestapo surrounded the Community,searched the entire compound, read personal correspondence, and finally left, taking books, letters, andpersonal papers. The political situation in Germany was getting more serious, and it soon became evidentthat all the men of military age had to flee the country.

Papa and two others left Germany on bicycles. They began their flight at midnight, each with a loaf ofbread and some sausages. They cycled all night, hoping to get to the Alm Bruderhof in Liechtenstein. Inthe morning they arrived at a village where the townspeople were marching to a war memorial. Theywalked behind them several yards until the people turned a corner. Taking a deep breath, the three got backon their bicycles and continued on their way. The same thing happened two more times. The fact that noone bothered them was amazing, to say the least.

They grew very tired, but were determined to reach the safety of the Alm Bruderhof. Finally, the lightsof the Alm Bruderhof appeared in the valley. What a relief! They coasted downhill to the railroad stationand on to their destination. They were very tired, but they were safe.

The Alm Bruderhof gave them some respite, but this safety did not lessen the effects the Nazi movementhad on all Europe. The control Hitler exerted in Germany spread across the Continent, and any oppositionto the Nazis was crushed. In April of 1937, the German State confiscated all books and keys of the RhönBruderhof, and they were ordered out! They had twenty-four hours to leave.

It was obvious that those in the Alm Bruderhof in Liechtenstein had little time before they too wouldbe forced out of that country, with the men of military age forced to join the German army. To refusewould most certainly be prison or, quite possibly, death.

Once again, Papa had to flee. His passport was close to expiration and his escape had to be soon. Papacould only speak German and was able to travel by himself as far as Ostend, Belgium, where a friendwould escort him to safety in England, where there was another Bruderhof.

To enter England, it was necessary for Papa to have an invitation to work. His invitation ! from a certainMrs. Mason ! was to help her purchase horses. Perhaps his childhood days with the horses instead ofkindergarten had been well spent.

Ironically, the agent Papa met at customs was also the agent who had received another man heading tothe Bruderhof, with an invitation from a Mrs. Mason, for the express purpose of assisting her in thepurchase of “cattle”. All coincidence aside: Papa entered England!

A Clydesdale yoked with a Thoroughbred is a more fitting picture than Mama and Papa as husband andwife. It is hard to imagine two people with such different backgrounds being married to one another. Butthat is just what happened. The differences between the two of them were numerous.

Whereas Papa was born and raised under harsh conditions in Munich, Mama was born in Paris with theproverbial silver spoon in her mouth. Papa’s parents were divorced early in his life, and Papa spent muchof his time on the streets. Mama, on the other hand, had both her parents with her. Her father was a doctor,

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

and while he spent many hours in his practice, Mama’s mother was always there for her. The starkdifferences between Mama and Papa go on and on, but with that in mind, I will attempt to relate Mama’slife story and let you in on the circumstances that brought about such an unlikely union.

Mama was born on September 18, 1913. She was the youngest of four children, the closest being abrother, two years older, whose name was Kaye. When she was six, the two of them were sent to aboarding school by the seaside in France.

I suppose the fact that Mama and Papa were both sent to boarding school would suggest that their liveswere similar, but in actuality, all similarity ended there. The boarding schools were very different. True,both schools were Catholic, and the teachers very strict, but the atmosphere, the food, even the gender ofthe teachers (Mama’s school had nuns while Papa’s had priests) made the experiences different. Mama hadKaye for support when she needed him, and even occasional visits from her father, which I am sure madeMama’s life in boarding school more bearable, albeit still lonely, as compared to what Papa had to endure.

Mama was at the boarding school only for two years, but she was very homesick and wanted to be homeagain with her mother and father. Happily, after those two years, Mama did not have to return to theboarding school.

When Mama was about ten years old, her family moved to Cannes. My grandfather had found out thathe had a heart problem and believed that a climate change would help. Mama tells about the vast threestories mansion where the third floor had eleven rooms. Mama said it was perfect for playing hide-and-seek. In Cannes, Mama excelled at school, so much so that she was moved up from grade to grade. In theend she was at least a head shorter in size than anyone else. Her classmates nicknamed her “bouchon”,which means “cork”

It was at about this time that my grandparents moved into a smaller house called the Villa Serpolette.(I visited the Villa Serpolette with my German grandfather and my uncle). The villa was on the FrenchRiviera, about fifty yards from the beach. This is when Mama’s father started playing tennis with thefamily. He said he played “for reasons of health”, but actually he envisioned Mama becoming anaccomplished player, as he was. I found out that my grandfather, Archibald Adam Warden, was a bronzemedalist at the 1900 Olympics in Paris. During Mama’s early teens they traveled every week to play intennis tournaments. They toured all over Switzerland, and even Scotland, each week in a different town,staying at luxurious hotels.

My grandfather, as so many others, lost all his money in the stock market. Mama said that they had todo without the maid, cook, and chauffeur. But in spite of having to live a “simple” life, my grandfather wasstill a successful doctor. In fact, most of his patients were very rich and famous. Among the patients hetreated were Eleanor Roosevelt, J. P. Morgan, Donald Campbell, and Admiral Byrd.

Mama was unsettled and not at all satisfied with the way her life was going. Consequently, when shewas eighteen, she went to Germany to live with a Jewish family in order to learn German. They helped herwith the German while she taught their two girls English and French. Then, at nineteen, she asked mygrandfather to let her have 1,000 Francs along with his permission to go to Paris to find a job. Her fatherwas not too happy to let her go. Although he actually wanted Mama to stay home and “read good books”,in the end he agreed. Grandfather arranged for her to ride to Paris in a Rolls Royce that belonged to thePasha of Marrakesh (Prince of Morocco), who was also his patient. In Paris, she found a job as personalsecretary to Rudyard Kipling’s wife. She also taught children to read. But once again she found herselfunfulfilled, and again returned to Cannes. At twenty-one years old she thought she wanted to be a nurse.Again, my grandfather was not happy about it, but he allowed her to try. Mama had a hard time findingout what direction she wanted her life to go.

Mama went to London, where arrangements had been made for her to stay with her mother’s cousin,Sir Henry Sessions Souttar. Sir Henry Souttar was a prominent surgeon, the first to perform successfulopen heart surgery. He performed a heart valve operation on a girl that made it possible for her to live formany more years. It was not until 1948, twenty-three years later, that a similar operation was attempted.Dr. Souttar invented numerous surgical instruments still being used today. In fact, medical students still

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

study the heart valve surgery techniques he performed. (A note aside: In 1964, George and I were givenour wedding reception at Dr Souttar’s home in London.)

Mama’s venture into nursing ended as did all her other searches, with her being frustrated andunfulfilled. She felt that there had to be something more than the life of luxury she had been living. Shewas drawn to more spiritual pursuits. In Paris, she was attracted to various religious groups, but a pamphletshe found drew her to the place where she would end up spending her life.

The article was about a community of Christians in England. From the explanation and accompanyingpictures, it seemed to be the answer to all the questions that had plagued her for so many years. Perhapsthere she would find a sense of accomplishment which all her other pursuits had denied her. Not only mightit be a good place for her, but it could be good for her brother as well.

Her parents agreed. So Mama and Kaye embarked on a journey to the Cotswolds in England. Kaye’s visit was just that, a visit. He soon left and returned to France. Mama, on the other hand, found

what she had been looking for, and never returned home. The Bruderhof people wore the same clothes thatHutterites wore, very conservative and uniform in style. So Mama packed up all her clothes and sent them,along with trunks full of party dresses and other possessions, to her sister Charlotte who, of course,expected Mama’s arrival home at any moment. Alas, she never came. Mama had forsaken all her earthlypossessions, and gave up being able to see her family again, in order to join the Bruderhof Community.

*So far, we have traced Mama and Papa to the Cotswold Community in England. They are at last in a safe

and ! as compared with the German Community ! a comfortable environment. However ! and it alwaysseems that after “comfortable,” a “but” or “however” is inevitable: – HITLER! His rise in power and iron-fisted control over Germany, with the spread of Nazism across Europe, threatened the freedoms of anycountry that stood in his way.

In 1939, the situation became worse, especially in England. The Cotswold Community was forced totake a difficult decision. The choice was either emigration to another country, or being placed in internmentcamps. Although the Bruderhof members were conscientious objectors and only wanted to live in peace,the fact that there were Germans among them intermarried with other nationalities caused tension betweenthe Community and their English neighbors. Emigration seemed tremendously difficult, but the thoughtof having to be interned and not knowing for how long, or even if families would be kept together, madeit a simple decision: Emigration!

Finding a country to accept them was hard. The fact that the world was rapidly being drawn into WWIImade travel over the Atlantic treacherous, to say the least. There were approximately three-hundred-and-fifty people to be transported from England, of which one-hundred-and-fifty-five were children. But thedecision to emigrate, though soul-wrenching, was vigorously pursued.

Anyone with any influence was encouraged to help in order to advance the endeavor. Mama asked herfather to write to his friends and acquaintances. My grandfather wrote to Eleanor Roosevelt and Sir LouisGreig. I don’t know what his letters accomplished, but I do know that Louis Greig was Grandfather’sfriend, and he in turn was close to King George VI. Information from my mother suggests that the help thusreceived was instrumental, not only in finding a country that would allow them to immigrate, but in cuttingany red tape that would have held up their departure.

Consequently, a country ! only one ! was found, which would allow the Community to immigrate:Paraguay! Various Mennonite settlements already existed there, and the Paraguayan Government wasaware of the many contributions the Mennonites had made to their country. They were especially good atagriculture.

It was during this period of anxiety and desperation that my parents were married. They became husbandand wife on November 22, 1940, in Swindon (twenty miles from where George and I were married in1964). Less than three months later, on February 7, 1941, the Avila Star sailed from England with Mama,Papa, and one-hundred-and-fifty-six men, women and children on board, on their way to South America.

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

Young Greta

The turquoise ribbon everyonewore on Greta’s Memorial Day

There were several trips on different ships to get everyone to Paraguay. Mama and Papa were on thesteamer with the greatest number of emigrants. It was miraculous that the vessels all sailed safely, sinceGerman U-boats were prowling the Atlantic waters. Many ships were sunk. In fact, the Avila Star was sunkon her return trip to Europe.

Turquoise in Ashes – Greta Milam, 25 July 1958 – 5 May 2014by Raphael VowlesMy youngest sister Greta died suddenly on 5th May 2014 in Boca Raton, Florida.She had contracted pancreatic cancer and it was already well progressed when itwas discovered. She had been having some considerable pains and was admittedto hospital. Within the month she was dead. She leaves her son James (twenty-seven) and a family of eight siblings. All our thoughts are with James and for hisfuture.

Greta has had an eventful life. After meeting her second husband, her son Jameswas born. She moved to New York fifteen years ago, and finally made it to Floridawhere she was happily settled. Greta always worked hard. She was a good friend

to all who met her. Her indomitablespirit and positive attitude sets anexample to all who would live a life.I admired and loved her intensely.

James is returning to New York to complete hisengineering studies. Cousins Johnny and Tara have madehim at home in their house on Long Island. James will bespending some time in the UK visiting family here.

Memorial Day: On Saturday July 19th, we gathered inLittlehampton, West Sussex,UK. Greta had asked for herashes to be scattered at sea offher favourite beach, whereMum and Dad had lived formany years. Forty-threefamily and friends were inattendance to see her boatleave for the horizon, wheresome final words were said.We all wore turquoise inremembrance of her favouritecolour and we were a sight!My thanks go to everyone

who could come for the day and for all the acts of kindness andconsideration, too many to mention here. Oldest sister Brenda was missedbecause she could not travel from Australia.

Goodbye dearest – Dear God – why take our sweetheart now.See also (1)Memorial , (2)Poetry & Memories on the web.

James Leroy Bernard: Sunrise July 9, 1924 – Sunset May 6, 2014by Christina and Anita BernardJim was born to Carl Leroy Bernard and Della Irene Talboy at his grandfather’s hospital in Onowa, Iowa.After moving around for some years the family settled on a farm on Weiser Flats in Idaho. While in high

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

Jim Bernard celebrating his Eightieth Birthday

school he was part of 4-H and with some friends developed a bull moving pen, which won them a prizeto go to the World’s Fair in New York. When Jim graduated from high school he applied for a scholarshipto Harvard, which he won at age sixteen.

While at Harvard, he struggled for a year betweenfollowing a path either in politics or becoming aconscientious objector. After reading “Character: Bad”, byHarold Studley Grey, he had a religious experience andbecame a conscientious objector. In 1943 during WorldWar II he was sent to prison. He met his wife PatriciaFindley (Ricia) when he got out and worked at Children’sOrthopedic Hospital in Los Angeles as an alternative toprison.

After the war, Jim and Ricia returned to Harvard wheretheir first daughter Christina was born. He heard about anAnabaptist community in Paraguay and decided that waswhere he wanted to live. His second daughter Anita wasborn at his parent’s farm in Idaho in 1948 while he wastraveling to Paraguay with Jere Brunner, Bob Peck andHarry Little. Ricia brought the children down three monthslater. Here, Juan Diego, Don Rene, Holly, and MargeryElizabeth where born.

The family returned to the United States in 1961, wherein Weiser, Idaho, Eric Leroy was born. One-and-and-a-halfyears later they all moved to Canyon, California where Jimand Ricia became involved in keeping the two-roomschoolhouse from closing. The local post office was also indanger of closing, so he helped create the Canyon Store Trust which kept the post office viable.

During the Vietnam War he and his family helped start and continue the Port Chicago Vigil, protestingthe shipments of napalm to Vietnam. He met Joanna Arnow Barnes, who was involved with the Vigil, andthey had Seth Adam in 1967. The Vigil continued for eight-hundred days at which point politicalpersecution drove the extended family to Costa Rica. In 1969, Irena was born to Jim and Joanna. Afterspending eight years in Costa Rica, Jim, Seth and Rena traveled back to the United States and spent thenext six years on The Farm in Tennessee.

In 1982, Jim came to Hawaii to his daughter Anita’s aid, to help with her young son Amancio, andstayed on for over thirty years, helping to raise his great-grandson Jed Bryant. In Hawaii he had finallyfound his true home.

In the last year of his life he made one more journey back to Canyon, to live with his daughter Christina,where he passed away in his ninetieth year.

Jim is survived by eight of his children, nineteen grandchildren and fifteen great-grandchildren.

Remembrance of Jim Bernardby Roberta Llewellyn, May 31st, 2014sMany years ago, during the sixties, I met Christina Bernard and her son Jimmy and her little brother Boo.Both must have been under three or four years of age. I was with my former, now deceased husband, TomLlewellyn, and three of our four children, Rebecca, Jamuna Jennifer, and Dylan Llewellyn, all under sixyears of age. We had come to the old Oakland Museum which was located in a turn-of-the-centuryVictorian house at Lake Merritt, to view the movie Huckleberry Finn. The children sat enthralled duringthe film, and afterward I was delighted to meet Christina. We both expressed wishing to meet again, eventhough, at that time, my family was going to live in Mexico, and I had no idea where or when we would

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

Hanna Patrick Homann and Hans Zimmermann were married on July 2, 2014. We are waiting to hear fromthe happy couple about this joyful occasion. Here go our best wishes for this new joint venture!

Sadly, on 2 June 2014, Dave Ostrom passed away. He was a staunch collaborator and member of the KITNewsletter Team, dispatching the Newsletter to all subscribers in the US and Canada. Mark Trapnell has

kindly volunteered to step in and take over this task. A big “Thank You!” to Mark!

meet. Many months later, because it didn’t work out for us to live in Mexico, my husband Tom found ahouse for us in Canyon, California through his friendship with John Adams. Jim Bernard was the firstperson we met in Canyon. He showed Tom a small rustic house close to the of top of a tree-lush, florafilled Canyon along a narrow, winding road, starting at the post office where second growth redwood treesstood filtering golden sunlight through their noble branches above a meandering creek. Behind the rustichouse lay a sprawling, beautiful valley, owned for many years by rancher John McCosker.

The community of Canyon was, and still is, populated by creative and unconventional denizens whousually number no more than two hundred at any given time. It has its own school district with a smallelementary school serving K-8th grade children. Our family was highly valued by Jim Bernard, then aCanyon School Board Member, for renting this house to us, because we already had one school-aged child,Rebecca, and more coming up. This was a boon for us, because of the extraordinary educationalopportunity for our children to attend a small rural school nestled in the redwoods. Tom rented the housewithout hesitation and I met Jim a week or so later when he came to welcome our family to our new, albeithumble, ramshackle home. I learned from Jim that this was the same house the Bernard family lived inpreviously when they first moved to Canyon. Many years later this very house was purchased by ChristinaBernard, which she has renovated over the years, and where she still lives today. It was amazing andserendipitous to connect with Christina again during those first weeks in Canyon and come to realize thatshe was the oldest daughter of Jim and Ricia Bernard.

Jim introduced me and Tom in the first few months of our living in magical Canyon to the Port ChicagoVigil which he had started as a conscientious objector specifically to protest the Vietnam War. The Vigilwas held in Contra Costa County at Port Chicago, where the trains carrying ammunition came through ona regular basis and military guys had a post there. The Vigil brought many young people from all over theUnited States to live at the Bernard house in Canyon, which is also located in Contra Costa County. Daily,the household took turns standing vigil day and night, protesting the ammunition runs and the VietnamWar. Many times I participated in the Vigil, taking my young children at times, and I was impressed withthe dedication, over a period of some years, to maintain this Vigil and to also house and feed the mostlyyoung people from all over the country who had come to stand vigil against the Vietnam War. RiciaBernard baked bread several times weekly and sold loaves for two dollars to whoever came by and wantedher delicious and simply made wholewheat bread. Dumpster-diving at affluent supermarkets a couple ofmiles away from Canyon became a nightly foraging activity, as a means to salvage useable food items,including large blocks of cheese, produce, fruit, and even ice cream to feed a hungry crew of rambunctiousyoung people. Jim taught me about his background as conscientious objector and how he had enduredprison during World War II because he refused to go to war, a hard war to not enter into, as he described,because of the brutalities and atrocious genocide of Jewish people occurring in Germany under the Naziregime. Nonetheless, he was a pacifist and stood for his conscience.

Jim and Ricia Bernard had, in the years following his time in prison, joined a Christian commune withmany other conscientious objectors, in Primavera, Paraguay. They stayed there for twelve years, raisingtheir family and living within frugal means.

I feel privileged to have known Jim Bernard and the Bernard family and to have been enlightened byJim’s experience, knowledge and work for the benefit of all of us by standing for peace and creating a saferworld for all to live in.

May he rest in sublime peace.

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KIT – The Keep In Touch Newsletter Volume XXVI No. 3 – August 2014

Contact us

A note from theEditor:

I am looking forcontributions from KITsubscribers with a story totell: anecdotes andrecollections about whathappened to youimmediately post-Bruderhof, perhaps.

How did you find yourfeet? With hardship andproblems? How was it foryou? What about yourfirst new job in theoutside world forfinancial survival? Orfinishing your studies fora chosen profession andhow you fared then?

Your stories of humanlove and loss, ofmarriage, raising childrenand possibly by nowgrand- and even great-grandchildren: each ofthese aspects sums up ourlives, like pearls on astring, and are worthwriting and telling usabout. There are manytales to be told.

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