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

th
July. L-R: Georginio Wijnaldum, Nigel de Jong, Lionel Messi and Ron Vlaar
give chase. Photograph: Ronald Martinez/Getty Images.
KIT The Keep In Touch Newsletter
Volume XXVI No. 3 August 2014
The KIT Newsletter editorial staff welcomes all suggested contributions for publication in the
Newsletter 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 contributions
by people with past Bruderhof connections, any letters, articles or reports which the editors deem to be
of 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 authors
changes 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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Spring Creek Valley, by George Maendel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
Mount Etna Sicily, by Joy MacDonald. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Memories of Primavera: tonsil extractions, by Elisabeth Bohlken-Zumpe. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
When it Rains it Pours, by Melchior Fros. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Josef and Ivy Stngl, 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.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
James Leroy Bernard, May 6, 2014, by Christina and Anita Bernard.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
Remembrance of Jim Bernard, by Roberta Llewellyn, May 31
st
, 2014.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
A Note from the Editor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
Contact Details of Volunteers who Produce the KIT Newsletter.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
Football
by Philip Hazelton, 25 June 2014
I believe the great Brazilian soccer
artists seemed to have little need for
ad hominids of any kind; or is
memory playing tricks on me? I love
the artistry of this game which I
learned so early to play well back
when Eric Phillips was Isla
Margarita school's sports coach and
trainer. Man, if I heard a ball bounce
somewhere on the Hof my leg would
come up by itself. I was put in
charge very early of maintaining the
school soccer balls (big heavy
leather sheathes with a cantankerous
bladder inside and a wretched tube
you 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 them
play ready. And, oh, did I enjoy playing this beautiful game. I liked playing full or half back (terms that
have disappeared from the game, I believe) because I could observe the game while also playing it. Next
best was the right wing. Ah, for a perfect cross pass to the center forward (striker?) who then pounded it
into the goal with speed and precision!
Yes, those soccer (football; futibol) games in front of the Coffee Wood or under the trees of Isla
Margarita'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 aging
and decrepitude! Thank heaven there is the World Cup which is the only tournament to get me in front of
a TV screen for as much as two hours; together with great neighbors (Hans Buhrmann, German; Philippe
Francois, Belgian; Peter Sherrington, British) who also grew up with and love the game, all rinsed down
with one or two ... of home brew beer.
Spring Creek Valley
by George Maendel, Spar Ridge Farm, Unity, Maine
Once, when I was younger, and a man named Jimmy Carter was running for President, I lived with my
girlfriend Kerri at a farm site in a river valley in central Tennessee where my sister and her husband had
bought a large tract of land, much of it very steep, but there were also rich and level meadows, hand cleared
by pioneers along a winding river flowing in the center of a sometimes narrow valley. The house at the
farm site where we had set up camp had burned down many years before, leaving only traces, but there was
a large, skeletal barn and a rainproof corn crib, built, it seemed to me, exactly to specifications published
in a US Department of Agriculture how-to brochure. It was a drive-through design with a central dirt floor
hallway, wide enough for a team of horses and wagon. On either side were bins with solid wooden floors
and sides of slatted wood, leaving plenty of room for air circulation. A generous roof covered the whole
structure. It was called an ear corn drying and storage crib which Can be built with usual farm labor in
a matter of days, while the corn was ripening, presumably. We had reworked one of the bins to serve as
bedroom, the other was our kitchen, work area and livingroom, as we worked to add a floor to the drive
through part, all on a level with the bedroom and kitchen.
Our nearest neighbour downstream was
a woman named Arizona Lynn, aged
sixty-six, who lived alone at a farm site
much like ours, but with an intact house.
She had been caring for her farm alone for
ten years, ever since her husband died.
Dont know why he had to go, she
said, he was four years younger than I.
She sometimes hired me for odd jobs,
like cleaning out sheep pens. Two dollars
an hour was the agreed upon wage, but we
usually traded for eggs or vegetables from
her garden.
I just love watching a man work, she
said, as I made quick work of cleaning out
a pen.
She was endlessly fascinated by us and
by the other young people (known to
locals as hippies) who were moving back
into 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 steep
valleys for life and work in towns, or at least to live up on the heights; anything but those snake-filled
valleys 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 bottom
land for pasture, for gardens and for crops. We considered it Gods pocket, here along the river, but people
dont seem to see it any more, except for this new tribe, and God bless them! To Arizona, we represented
some sort of resurrection.
While talking to her, I learned where to buy the floor planks I needed for the center part of our new
home. There was a sawmill one town to the east that specialized in providing oak boards to a flooring mill.
Boards which didnt make the grade could be bought for not much money.
Take cash and dont 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 had
money 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 graded
boards.
Load as many as you need from
there, he said.
I filled the truck with what I thought I
could safely haul, considering that there
was one steep hill to negotiate on the way
home. Lucky for me, it was downhill into
the valley and not up, as the old truck
might not have hauled the heavy load
uphill without burning out the already
weak clutch.
Early next morning, we heard the sound
of a vehicle pull up right behind the still
loaded truck. Oops, I thought, as I grabbed
pants and a shirt, I hope it isnt the Sheriff
looking for a wood thief.
It was Arizonas brother. He wanted to
know where I had found the load of
lumber. I told him the story and he asked
to 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 long
enough for his trailer. He asked if he could pay me with moonshine. I agreed. He said he would stop in next
time he was in the area. And he informed me that no one, but no one could buy such a load of lumber as
I had for the price I had paid.
Better keep that transaction under your hat, he said. Someone at the mill gave you a Welcome to
Tennessee 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 after
trading a few for moonshine, which arrived early one Sunday morning, a quart jar full of a clear liquid, like
water, but with a different, almost oily viscosity. I had to taste it of course, and I could certainly feel the
heat 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 tributary
stream runs right through the farmyard. This stream, called a branch in Tennessee, divided into two a few
hundred feet uphill from our corn crib. The right branch had waterfalls which I had often visited. The left
branch was due east but I had not explored very far in that direction, because there was no clear path. I had
been 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 steep
rocky sides of the ravine leave a person with two choices: walk in the stream, or find a way up the steep
rocky walls to walk in the forest, which in places was thick with brambles, sometimes full of thorns. I
powered my way through the forest and down the ravine, wondering what sort of waterfall I would find
at the end of my journey, which was beginning to seem very long. Finally I heard the water and then I was
there, and it was indeed a beautiful scene, the air cool and moist, as I stood near enough to wash and to cool
off 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 reached
toward the water, a bird had built a nest, just inches from the rock ledge where the water begins to fall. I
didnt 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: An
idea, behaviour or style that spreads from
person to person within a culture and acts
as a unit for carrying cultural ideas,
symbols or practices that can be
transmitted from one mind to another
through writing, speech, gestures, rituals,
or other imitable phenomena.
The birds nest and its location seemed
to me the ideal I was striving toward in
converting the corn crib, and my load of
oak boards were like the twigs used to
build the nest by the waterfall. Our goals
were nearly identical: a home, with a view
of the world and with access to water. I
also sought to recognize and embrace a
place and to build a home. And I have
done so more than once, kind of the way a
bird does, year after year.
My earliest memory of seeking shelter
was at another river valley, in North Dakota, while caring for a flock of ducklings. The late spring weather
was mild and we had guided and followed a flock of ducklings to a grazing area in a wide ravine where
early spring grass was plentiful and where there was flowing water and a small pond. As we were watching
over them, it began to rain which the ducklings didnt mind, but we looked around for shelter and soon
found the body of an old automobile. The seats were long gone, but it was quite roomy, and seekers before
us had hauled things in to sit on, old buckets and planks for benches. Once inside, we were dry, entertained
by 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 during
daytime hours, except for a short afternoon snack, always at three oclock. By half past, tea was over and
we 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. Four
of us shared the digging with one shovel. While one person was digging, those of us waiting were busy
gathering materials; boards and tin to cover our shelter once it gained the dimensions we thought we
needed. There had been a farm in this area for generations, so it was easy to find junk. We found sturdy
boards borrowed from a pile the men had made when they took down an old barn, and we found used tin
sheets and even a small wood or coal burning stove, a real prize, which we hauled about half a mile in a
two 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, possibly
professional guides or volcanologists, silhouetted near the very top, an
area out of bounds to visitors because of Etnas activity.
stove and chimney pipe. On a shelf carved into the wall near the stove we had a box of matches. Printed
in bold letters on the side of the box were the words: STRIKE ANYWHERE.
Mount Etna Sicily
by Joy MacDonald
My daughter Fiona and I spent a week in Sicily recently. We had booked into a very unusual hotel built
using the natural steep contours between Taormina and the Mediterranean Sea. The grounds are vast but
spread around interlocking distinct areas of different heights. The seawater infinity pool is perched right
up against the cliff face with its sheer drop to the sea. The secluded beach can be reached by a lift and then
through a vast subtly lit corridor of rough-hewn honey coloured rock, or by taking a steep pathway which
zigzags through landscaped gardens and natural vegetation all the way down past the Jacuzzi and infinity
pool to the beach.
Mount Etna had a minor eruption the
day before we arrived, closing the airport
temporarily, and as darkness descended on
our first evening, glowing red rivulets of
lava and puffing steam cloudlets were
accompanied by the setting sun
contributing its own beautiful hues, while
coastal villages twinkled as their lights
appeared all along the fringes of land and
sea. Magical.
Three days later it was considered safe
enough for us to join an Etna all day
excursion, first visiting the Botanical
Gardens and Alcantara Gorge, a narrow
slit in the rocks with the river running
through, almost seventy metres below. A
long, very steep zigzag path brought us
down to where we could admire the high
waterfall as it tumbled and rushed through the gorge. We then boarded the Ferrovia Curcumetnea train
which travelled around the lower slopes.
At one-thousand metres is the South
Station, a busy touristy area with coach
and car parks, many eateries and souvenir
shops. From there we took the cable car,
straight up the by now very steep
mountainside, with incredible views of
craters covered in lava ash where
underneath, snow could be glimpsed. At
three-thousand metres we disembarked
and clambered into what could be
described as minibuses on tractor wheels,
four foot in diameter, to allow them to
plough their way over thick unstable ash
and boulders, zigzagging to the very rim
of Etna which, at three-thousand-three-
hundred-and-thirty metres, is the largest
active volcano in Europe. Here we
alighted 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 from
Etnas craters which were spewing lava, ash and steam. Here, looking
down at stragglers
crater (because Etnas main crater was still grumbling, as were a couple of new side vents lower down the
opposite 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 when
the pathway narrowed between two
steeply sloping craters. Then back down to
the South Station, where we reconnected
with our coach and returned the last thirty
miles down through tiny villages and
farmsteads, where the very fertile soil
makes this an exceptional area to grow
fruit, nuts, grains and vegetables, though
with the ever present knowledge that it is
Etna who will, as she always has, dictate
the wisdom of cultivating her life-giving
bounty. Indeed, we saw several previously
abandoned villages and half buried
buildings.
Back at the hotel, we had a relaxing
swim while gazing at Etna, thanking her
for giving us such an enjoyable lovely
long day.
Memories of Primavera: tonsil extractions Paraguay in the 1950's
by Elisabeth Bohlken-Zumpe
Between 1940 and 1960, the Bruderhof, who came to South America from war-torn Europe, built and
established three beautiful villages in the middle of the jungle. With only four-hundred men, women and
children, they started out on the experiment of living a life of brotherly love and Christianity, sharing all
things in common, with an aim to build the Kingdom of God on earth and establish a place of peace. They
were 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 nurses
training 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 land
full of wild animals, including poisonous snakes. Soon, though, word spread, and the locals came from near
and 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 hospital
developed into a beautiful mission hospital which served not only our own people but also the Mennonites
in 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 was
a 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 the
newly 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 United
States to do his alternative military service. We had a laboratory, a chemist, nurses and personnel attending
the primitive kitchen and sterilisation facilities for the operation equipment. There were operation and
isolation rooms, and a good maternity home.
Most of the treatments were performed at our own hospital, from appendix operations to shotgun
wounds, 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
Asuncin 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 this
hospital much like Albert Schweizers hospital in Lambarene, Africa.
There were just a couple of operations
our doctors felt unable to perform. These
were cholecystectomies, or the surgical
removal of gall stones; for such surgeries,
a small one-engine aeroplane would be
chartered to get the patient to Asuncin,
the capital of Paraguay, as fast as possible;
neither did they perform tonsillectomies.
Many of us children had the ever returning
strep throats, treated by gargles with
potassium of permanganate or stippling
our tonsils with a small brush dipped in
gentian violet. Antibiotics were not heard
of in those years, at least not in Primavera.
Being selected to go to the capital for
this operation seemed like a birthday
present and was indeed very exciting. We never got away from our settlement and had little idea of what
to 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 from
malaria 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 needed
repairing. The mornings were always the best and most beautiful part of the day. A little chilly, while the
sun rose in beautiful colours behind the lapacho trees and silvery leaves of the palm trees swinging back
and forth in the wind. We two girls were happy and excited, seeing lovely wild flowers, beautiful coloured
birds, butterflies, and here and there groups of ostriches or rheas feeding in the campo. As the day passed
our horses carried us bravely up and down the bumpy mud and sand road, farther and farther away from
home. We made only short stops to rest and water the horses while we had some mat and galletas
(Paraguayan tea and small hard white balls of bread), a treat for us. It was a hot day, but we did reach
Puerto Rosario, the small harbour on the Paraguay river, in time for the evening boat to take us down river
to Asuncin.
Early the next morning we reached the
capital, and there was a Brother from the
Bruderhof House to meet us. In those days
we had no truck or car in the city, but it
was a great experience to walk through the
waking city with its cars, buses, donkeys,
horses and lots of people going to the
early morning market to buy fruit and
vegetables. The smells of vegetables, fruit,
flowers, cars and the sun on the paved
streets were a completely new experience
for us.
We were welcomed at the Bruderhof
House with a delicious late breakfast of
freshly made coffee, fresh bread, and huge
tomatoes, better than anything we had ever
had 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 Bruderhof
House 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 planned
for the next day. The following morning, Hannabeth and I got up, put on our best Sunday dresses and
carefully 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 us
home again late afternoon.
Like all houses in the city, there were steps leading from the street and pavement to a door set in an all
surrounding wall. As we stepped inside, we saw an open patio with several doors leading off it into
different hospital rooms. There was a queue of some fifteen to twenty men, women and children waiting
in the sun for their turn. At the end of the patio there was a small surgery from which we could hear the
screams 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 bleeding
victim leave the back door and the first in the row would be welcomed into the little surgery. The
screaming, which had been so frightening, stopped for a short while, during which the assistant led a
bleeding, coughing and crying patient to a wooden plank bed on the open veranda and we saw that person
being put to rest on his or her left side, everybody next to each other, but feeling too sick to notice. Next
came the screams of the latest victim, ever harder and louder as we approached the surgery door.
It was Jans turn first, as he was faint from the sun and his empty stomach, then Hannabeths, whose
hand 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 a
bloodstained 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 his
left thigh along my right thigh and his belly somewhere in between. I was frantic with fear, but had no time
to get lost in that feeling, as a mouth gag was placed between my upper and lower jaw and a kidney shaped
dish placed on my lap. Dr. Inseraldo put a little gadget with a sharp iron loop into my open mouth. He put
the 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 the
queue as they neared the door of horror. I
was trying to kick, but the sheet around
me was pulled too tight. I wanted to say
that the other tonsil had never hurt me at
all, but with the same procedure the
second horrid tonsil fell into the kidney-
dish on my lap. I was cleaned up from the
spattered blood and given a piece of ice to
keep in my mouth and suck on, while the
good surgeon cleaned his glasses for the
next patients to come. It was a matter of a
few minutes, not more. After that I was
freed from the big sheet around me and
carefully led to lie next to those helped
before me, all with their cheeks on their
towel, groaning, moaning and finally too
exhausted for further reactions.
Hannabeth looked all messy as the
blood kept running out of her mouth, but
I 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 and
told 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 recover
somewhat before walking back to the Bruderhof House, resting on benches on the way, sucking on ice
which Margaret had put into a flannel for us, as it was all a bit messy. The sun was high, but we stopped
under 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 message
saying that the Bruderhof truck had been repaired and was ready to hit the bad roads to Puerto Rosario
again.
For our return trip, the Bruderhof
House had hired a cabin for Hannabeth
and me on the river steamer, while Jan had
a blanket to lie down on, up on deck.
Hannabeth was asleep soon while I sat
with her. I placed my small piece of
luggage on the top bunk bed and went to
check on Jan, to see if he was alright. He
was rolled up in his blanket with his coat
under his head, fast asleep. I looked at the
beautiful starlit sky and the shadows of the
coastline passing on both sides of the
river. When I returned to our cabin, a huge
Paraguayan lady at least she seemed
huge to me was snoring away on my
bunk bed. I poked her gently to tell her
that 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, leaning
against 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 with
sacks of flower, mat, 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 the
loaded sacks of foodstuffs and other goods, stretched our tired limbs, and soon were asleep on the ever
moving, hobbling, rocking and bumping old truck over the pot-holed, sandy, muddy roads, happy to reach
our 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 any
complications, and soon recovered, to pick up school again.
When it Rains it Pours
by Melchior Fros, San Antonio, Texas, Jan 2012
The sky is overcast today. The parched ground is crying from thirst.
Maverick saunters by and I call to her. She meows her morning greeting
and continues her hunt for breakfast. A stray dog comes along, and she
scurries up a tree, tail fluffed, fangs bared, and claws dug deeply into the
tree 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 begin
to fall on my neck; wet, isolated plunks first here then there then
everywhere. Daniel, lets get a tarp up before we are soaked to the
bone, I cry out. You grab the washer-head screws and the driver, and
Ill 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-car
structure. Daniel digs, lays and levels two 4x6
treated posts into the pebbled soil. Theyll serve
as door sills dont laff! Later, the owner
will throw a bed or gravel on the inside and
make something more useful out of a musty,
dusty dirt floor. Meanwhile, I work on the
beams above the doors.
This garage was probably built in hop-gallop
fashion, Texas style. A perimeter bed of 4x6
cypress beams lies on the ground; covered with
a protective layer of tin. Walls consist of
unevenly spaced studs, covered with 8
exposure cypress siding boards. A non-descript,
multi-pitched hip roof rests awkwardly atop the
walls. Two 8 wide swinging doors, badly
listing on corroded hinges, enclose the structure. Im guessing it was built
in two days, ending with a neighborhood fiesta. Maybe they had the party
first, with lots of Dos Equiswho knows? And here we are, two
Midwestern carpenters -carpenter ants with attitude- trying to salvage the
structure. With only basic digging tools and lots of spit we attempt to bust
through the edges of a concrete footer in the center of the
garageandumwere making no progress!
Daniel suggests I use my baby sledge hammer, but it hardly puts a dent
into the aged concrete. Out comes my trusty grinder with a mean-looking
stone-cutting blade attached. The dust swirls and shrapnel flies. Daniel
passes 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 beams
laid and leveled. Whoooo! Boy, well have to charge properly for this, my
son moans. I throw him a wicked laugh. Meanwhile the rain cometh down
in torrents!
I have not installed an overhead garage door in 30 odd years, and it takes
a while to get the gazillion parts properly assembled but, as night falls and the workmans day is over, one
garage door is up; not operable, mind you, but
up! We climb through an escape hole in the
center wall, grab odd 2x4s and sheets of junk,
and close up the other half of the garage. It
contains a few valuables that most thieves in
this area would be only too happy to lift.
The Aussie Open is under way. Daniel tells
me that Maria grunts too loudly! Serena is
slowed by injury. Mom Kim has resumed her
tennis carrier and is doing mighty fine. Rafa,
The Joker and King Roger are winning as
expected. Were eating a veggie supper while
watching our fav players. Both of us drift
asleep in our armchairs. Theres no tellin if
this 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 Im driving! Boy, did
he even see the car that narrowly missed broad-siding us? an incredulous Ken asks Daniel. From his
passenger seat Daniel replies, I dont think the old Mann saw it; he does not even know how lucky he
sometimes is. Ive pleaded with my dad to take care! You see, Ken, hes an aggressive driver; hardly ever
coming to a full stop, pushing yellow lights, and generally zooming from one place to another. He should
pay attention to his driving and not turn to talk to us, a flustered Ken yells from the back of the van, where
he sits on a turned-over bucket. Oh, Ive told him so many
timesbut you have to remember hes deaf; he cant chat and
drive as you and I can. And when my dad has something burning
on his mind, there is no stopping himplus, he likes to make
eye contact. If you dont make eye contact with him he thinks
you are not listening! And, by the way, he has a clean driving
record. That says something. Daniel grins.
Suddenly Im awakened from my dream by a brilliant bolt of
virgin lightning and thunderrumbling, roaring crashing
thunder, such as even a deaf man heareth! I look through the
window and torrents of rain, inch upon inch, 4 inches in all,
quench the thirsting ground, while bolts of lightning scare the
bejeebers out of Maverick.
Next morning it is quiet; the sort of stillness that follows a Noahkian downpour. The sun vainly tries to
dry out wet clouds. Down the street the spill way is clogged with branches and trash, and workers are
desperately trying to unclog what resembles an urban beaver dam.
Its a fresh day!
Josef and Ivy Stngl
by Amanda Gurganus
My father was born in Landau, Germany, in 1911. From early on, his life was harsh and frightening. He
told us stories of airplanes shooting at their house and about being afraid to go near the train station
because the communists had taken it over and there was gunfire. War and the hardships of the time made
life difficult, especially for a five- or six-year-old boy.
Papas parents were divorced. Papa was awarded to his father, while his brother and sister went with
his mother. Their situation was difficult because of his fathers job. He was a baker and had to be at work
at 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 in
kindergarten. He was often at the stables playing with the horses rather than attending school. I do not
recall any stories about Papa playing with other boys or having any toys, so perhaps the times he spent with
the 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 who
was 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 didnt 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, a
potato and some barley coffee. The school lessons were also very strict and severe. Whenever Papa made
mistakes ! and they were more than a few ! he would be whipped with a stick. When the whistle blew they
were to respond quickly, and if they were not quick enough, they had to run up and down a rather long
distance, 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 a
tailor and he tried to be a baker. As a teenager of about sixteen, neither choice was easy, but he ended up
as a baker, and an excellent one at that.
For the next few years Papa wandered around working at whatever jobs he could find (mainly, he
wanted to roam through Germany, not really wanting to settle on a career). It was then, when Papa was
eighteen, that he discovered the Bruderhof Community. Papa thought that at last he had found what he had
been searching for his entire life. Until then the only Christianity he had witnessed was in the strict
Catholic boarding school. Papa was instantly drawn to the people, who became his family for the rest of
his life. Papa joined the Rhn Bruderhof on January 14, 1930, but it was not long before the political
atmosphere in Germany became not only difficult, but dangerous for anyone who did not follow Adolph
Hitler.
The Bruderhof Community was pressured to put Nazis in charge of their school. Of course they couldnt
agree, 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, and
personal papers. The political situation in Germany was getting more serious, and it soon became evident
that 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 of
bread and some sausages. They cycled all night, hoping to get to the Alm Bruderhof in Liechtenstein. In
the morning they arrived at a village where the townspeople were marching to a war memorial. They
walked behind them several yards until the people turned a corner. Taking a deep breath, the three got back
on their bicycles and continued on their way. The same thing happened two more times. The fact that no
one 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 lights
of the Alm Bruderhof appeared in the valley. What a relief! They coasted downhill to the railroad station
and 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 movement
had on all Europe. The control Hitler exerted in Germany spread across the Continent, and any opposition
to the Nazis was crushed. In April of 1937, the German State confiscated all books and keys of the Rhn
Bruderhof, 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 would
be forced out of that country, with the men of military age forced to join the German army. To refuse
would 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. Papa
could only speak German and was able to travel by himself as far as Ostend, Belgium, where a friend
would 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 certain
Mrs. Mason ! was to help her purchase horses. Perhaps his childhood days with the horses instead of
kindergarten had been well spent.
Ironically, the agent Papa met at customs was also the agent who had received another man heading to
the Bruderhof, with an invitation from a Mrs. Mason, for the express purpose of assisting her in the
purchase 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 and
wife. It is hard to imagine two people with such different backgrounds being married to one another. But
that 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 the
proverbial silver spoon in her mouth. Papas parents were divorced early in his life, and Papa spent much
of 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, Mamas mother was always there for her. The stark
differences between Mama and Papa go on and on, but with that in mind, I will attempt to relate Mamas
life 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 a
brother, two years older, whose name was Kaye. When she was six, the two of them were sent to a
boarding school by the seaside in France.
I suppose the fact that Mama and Papa were both sent to boarding school would suggest that their lives
were 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 of
the teachers (Mamas school had nuns while Papas had priests) made the experiences different. Mama had
Kaye for support when she needed him, and even occasional visits from her father, which I am sure made
Mamas 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 home
again with her mother and father. Happily, after those two years, Mama did not have to return to the
boarding school.
When Mama was about ten years old, her family moved to Cannes. My grandfather had found out that
he had a heart problem and believed that a climate change would help. Mama tells about the vast three
stories 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 the
end 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 French
Riviera, about fifty yards from the beach. This is when Mamas father started playing tennis with the
family. He said he played for reasons of health, but actually he envisioned Mama becoming an
accomplished player, as he was. I found out that my grandfather, Archibald Adam Warden, was a bronze
medalist at the 1900 Olympics in Paris. During Mamas early teens they traveled every week to play in
tennis 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 to
do without the maid, cook, and chauffeur. But in spite of having to live a simple life, my grandfather was
still a successful doctor. In fact, most of his patients were very rich and famous. Among the patients he
treated 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 she
was eighteen, she went to Germany to live with a Jewish family in order to learn German. They helped her
with the German while she taught their two girls English and French. Then, at nineteen, she asked my
grandfather to let her have 1,000 Francs along with his permission to go to Paris to find a job. Her father
was 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 the
Pasha of Marrakesh (Prince of Morocco), who was also his patient. In Paris, she found a job as personal
secretary to Rudyard Kiplings wife. She also taught children to read. But once again she found herself
unfulfilled, 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 finding
out what direction she wanted her life to go.
Mama went to London, where arrangements had been made for her to stay with her mothers cousin,
Sir Henry Sessions Souttar. Sir Henry Souttar was a prominent surgeon, the first to perform successful
open heart surgery. He performed a heart valve operation on a girl that made it possible for her to live for
many 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 given
our wedding reception at Dr Souttars home in London.)
Mamas venture into nursing ended as did all her other searches, with her being frustrated and
unfulfilled. She felt that there had to be something more than the life of luxury she had been living. She
was drawn to more spiritual pursuits. In Paris, she was attracted to various religious groups, but a pamphlet
she 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 accompanying
pictures, it seemed to be the answer to all the questions that had plagued her for so many years. Perhaps
there she would find a sense of accomplishment which all her other pursuits had denied her. Not only might
it 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.
Kayes 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 that
Hutterites 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 Mamas arrival home at any moment. Alas, she never came. Mama had forsaken all her earthly
possessions, 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 always
seems 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 any
country that stood in his way.
In 1939, the situation became worse, especially in England. The Cotswold Community was forced to
take a difficult decision. The choice was either emigration to another country, or being placed in internment
camps. 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 between
the Community and their English neighbors. Emigration seemed tremendously difficult, but the thought
of having to be interned and not knowing for how long, or even if families would be kept together, made
it a simple decision: Emigration!
Finding a country to accept them was hard. The fact that the world was rapidly being drawn into WWII
made 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 the
decision to emigrate, though soul-wrenching, was vigorously pursued.
Anyone with any influence was encouraged to help in order to advance the endeavor. Mama asked her
father to write to his friends and acquaintances. My grandfather wrote to Eleanor Roosevelt and Sir Louis
Greig. I dont know what his letters accomplished, but I do know that Louis Greig was Grandfathers
friend, and he in turn was close to King George VI. Information from my mother suggests that the help thus
received was instrumental, not only in finding a country that would allow them to immigrate, but in cutting
any 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 was
aware of the many contributions the Mennonites had made to their country. They were especially good at
agriculture.
It was during this period of anxiety and desperation that my parents were married. They became husband
and wife on November 22, 1940, in Swindon (twenty miles from where George and I were married in
1964). 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 everyone
wore on Gretas Memorial Day
There were several trips on different ships to get everyone to Paraguay. Mama and Papa were on the
steamer with the greatest number of emigrants. It was miraculous that the vessels all sailed safely, since
German U-boats were prowling the Atlantic waters. Many ships were sunk. In fact, the Avila Star was sunk
on her return trip to Europe.
Turquoise in Ashes Greta Milam, 25 July 1958 5 May 2014
by Raphael Vowles
My youngest sister Greta died suddenly on 5
th
May 2014 in Boca Raton, Florida.
She had contracted pancreatic cancer and it was already well progressed when it
was discovered. She had been having some considerable pains and was admitted
to 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 his
future.
Greta has had an eventful life. After meeting her second husband, her son James
was born. She moved to New York fifteen years ago, and finally made it to Florida
where she was happily settled. Greta always worked hard. She was a good friend
to all who met her. Her indomitable
spirit and positive attitude sets an
example to all who would live a life.
I admired and loved her intensely.
James is returning to New York to complete his
engineering studies. Cousins Johnny and Tara have made
him at home in their house on Long Island. James will be
spending some time in the UK visiting family here.
Memorial Day: On Saturday July 19
th
, we gathered in
Littlehampton, West Sussex,
UK. Greta had asked for her
ashes to be scattered at sea off
her favourite beach, where
Mum and Dad had lived for
many years. Forty-three
family and friends were in
attendance to see her boat
leave for the horizon, where
some final words were said.
We all wore turquoise in
remembrance of her favourite
colour and we were a sight!
My thanks go to everyone
who could come for the day and for all the acts of kindness and
consideration, too many to mention here. Oldest sister Brenda was missed
because 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, 2014
by Christina and Anita Bernard
Jim was born to Carl Leroy Bernard and Della Irene Talboy at his grandfathers 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 prize
to go to the Worlds Fair in New York. When Jim graduated from high school he applied for a scholarship
to Harvard, which he won at age sixteen.
While at Harvard, he struggled for a year between
following a path either in politics or becoming a
conscientious objector. After reading Character: Bad, by
Harold Studley Grey, he had a religious experience and
became a conscientious objector. In 1943 during World
War II he was sent to prison. He met his wife Patricia
Findley (Ricia) when he got out and worked at Childrens
Orthopedic Hospital in Los Angeles as an alternative to
prison.
After the war, Jim and Ricia returned to Harvard where
their first daughter Christina was born. He heard about an
Anabaptist community in Paraguay and decided that was
where he wanted to live. His second daughter Anita was
born at his parents farm in Idaho in 1948 while he was
traveling to Paraguay with Jere Brunner, Bob Peck and
Harry Little. Ricia brought the children down three months
later. Here, Juan Diego, Don Rene, Holly, and Margery
Elizabeth where born.
The family returned to the United States in 1961, where
in Weiser, Idaho, Eric Leroy was born. One-and-and-a-half
years later they all moved to Canyon, California where Jim
and Ricia became involved in keeping the two-room
schoolhouse from closing. The local post office was also in
danger 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, protesting
the shipments of napalm to Vietnam. He met Joanna Arnow Barnes, who was involved with the Vigil, and
they had Seth Adam in 1967. The Vigil continued for eight-hundred days at which point political
persecution drove the extended family to Costa Rica. In 1969, Irena was born to Jim and Joanna. After
spending eight years in Costa Rica, Jim, Seth and Rena traveled back to the United States and spent the
next six years on The Farm in Tennessee.
In 1982, Jim came to Hawaii to his daughter Anitas aid, to help with her young son Amancio, and
stayed on for over thirty years, helping to raise his great-grandson Jed Bryant. In Hawaii he had finally
found 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 Bernard
by Roberta Llewellyn, May 31
st
, 2014s
Many 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, Tom
Llewellyn, and three of our four children, Rebecca, Jamuna Jennifer, and Dylan Llewellyn, all under six
years of age. We had come to the old Oakland Museum which was located in a turn-of-the-century
Victorian house at Lake Merritt, to view the movie Huckleberry Finn. The children sat enthralled during
the film, and afterward I was delighted to meet Christina. We both expressed wishing to meet again, even
though, 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 from
the 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 KIT
Newsletter 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 didnt work out for us to live in Mexico, my husband Tom found a
house for us in Canyon, California through his friendship with John Adams. Jim Bernard was the first
person we met in Canyon. He showed Tom a small rustic house close to the of top of a tree-lush, flora
filled Canyon along a narrow, winding road, starting at the post office where second growth redwood trees
stood filtering golden sunlight through their noble branches above a meandering creek. Behind the rustic
house 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 who
usually number no more than two hundred at any given time. It has its own school district with a small
elementary school serving K-8
th
grade children. Our family was highly valued by Jim Bernard, then a
Canyon 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 educational
opportunity for our children to attend a small rural school nestled in the redwoods. Tom rented the house
without hesitation and I met Jim a week or so later when he came to welcome our family to our new, albeit
humble, ramshackle home. I learned from Jim that this was the same house the Bernard family lived in
previously when they first moved to Canyon. Many years later this very house was purchased by Christina
Bernard, which she has renovated over the years, and where she still lives today. It was amazing and
serendipitous to connect with Christina again during those first weeks in Canyon and come to realize that
she 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 Chicago
Vigil which he had started as a conscientious objector specifically to protest the Vietnam War. The Vigil
was held in Contra Costa County at Port Chicago, where the trains carrying ammunition came through on
a regular basis and military guys had a post there. The Vigil brought many young people from all over the
United 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 Vietnam
War. Many times I participated in the Vigil, taking my young children at times, and I was impressed with
the dedication, over a period of some years, to maintain this Vigil and to also house and feed the mostly
young people from all over the country who had come to stand vigil against the Vietnam War. Ricia
Bernard baked bread several times weekly and sold loaves for two dollars to whoever came by and wanted
her delicious and simply made wholewheat bread. Dumpster-diving at affluent supermarkets a couple of
miles 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 rambunctious
young people. Jim taught me about his background as conscientious objector and how he had endured
prison 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 Nazi
regime. 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 with
many other conscientious objectors, in Primavera, Paraguay. They stayed there for twelve years, raising
their family and living within frugal means.
I feel privileged to have known Jim Bernard and the Bernard family and to have been enlightened by
Jims experience, knowledge and work for the benefit of all of us by standing for peace and creating a safer
world 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 the
Editor:
I am looking for
contributions from KIT
subscribers with a story to
tell: anecdotes and
recollections about what
happened to you
immediately post-
Bruderhof, perhaps.
How did you find your
feet? With hardship and
problems? How was it for
you? What about your
first new job in the
outside world for
financial survival? Or
finishing your studies for
a chosen profession and
how you fared then?
Your stories of human
love and loss, of
marriage, raising children
and possibly by now
grand- and even great-
grandchildren: each of
these aspects sums up our
lives, like pearls on a
string, and are worth
writing and telling us
about. There are many
tales to be told.
And what about
beautiful poetry you
wrote and might want to
share? Or stories told via
photographs or in
drawings?
Pick up your pen,
camera or paintbrush, and
share your treasures with
KIT readers. Post your
contributions to any
Volunteer listed at the end
of the KIT Newsletter, or
send them in by email.
Volunteers produce the Keep In Touch Newsletter
Susanna Alves Editor and Layout susannaalves@arnet.com.ar
+54-(0)3757-422017 Puerto Iguaz, ARGENTINA.
Send your ideas and articles to any of the volunteers below.
Charles Lamar Copy-Editor rastus@mindspring.com
+1-415-386-6072 c/o SFCR, 755 Frederick St. 1
st
floor, San Francisco, CA 94117, USA
Linda Jackson Email and Circulation Worldwide lord.linda7@gmail.com
7 Severn Street, Longridge, Lancashire, PR3 3ND, UK
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