The Power of Place
10/03/24 21:01
My grandfather never seemed to mind that the twentieth century was passing him by. He just didn’t care for conveniences. Though he did own a Model-T Ford, it was permanently parked in one of his barns, encased in decades of dust. Dewey Gillogly walked everywhere he went.
Until the day he died, Dewey drew his water from an ancient spring at the base of the hill that held his house. Some of my kinfolk back in those southeastern Ohio hollows swear it was the untreated water that killed him, but since he lived to be 92, their arguments are a lot shallower than that old spring must have been. Every morning, with pail in hand, he would bound off his back porch and head down the well-worn path to pull up enough drinking and washing water to get him through another day.
It was probably the area’s first permanent settlers who deepened the spring’s basin and lined it with slate. At some point a tin roof was purportedly raised overtop to protect the pool from falling leaves and debris. By the time Dewey came along there was standing a 10’ x 15’ cement-floored springhouse. The overhanging pitched roof covered the actual spring. Behind the wide wooden door, the water flowed through a trough in the floor, along the north wall. It was a place where melons and steel cans of raw milk were kept cool. The elevated portion of the floor was where my grandfather stored the sacks of potatoes he harvested from his fields up behind the house, or the apples he picked from the orchard in the side yard. The air inside had a dank, earthy smell, but with a strange scent of sweetness.
During my childhood, all my Ohio aunts and uncles lived in the rural regions surrounding the Gillogly homestead. Some were close enough that they could hear the report of Dewey’s shotgun echoing through the hills. I, on the other hand, was a distant relative in the literal sense of the term, growing up in ever-progressive New Jersey. But once or twice a year, my parents would head west in our Hudson Hornet for a Buckeye visit, and I would reconnect with my cousins. We’d scamper through the cornfields, get dirty in the coal shed, get wet in the creek, catch snakes in the stone foundation of the smokehouse, and look for treasures along the rails of the New York Central spur line that ran through the woods, just west of the house.
But on those warm August afternoons, when my parents and I had Grandpa and the farm to ourselves, I would eventually wander away from the grown-up discourse and find my way to the springhouse. There, I would lie on the bank and stare up into the bright green canopy of the sycamore trees that towered overhead. I’d study the twisted branches and watch squirrels leap from limb to limb. I would close my eyes and try to distinguish the calls of the cardinals from those of the robins. With my eyes still closed I would ponder life (as deeply as a nine-year old can ever ponder anything). When my imagination awoke, I would pretend that the springhouse was a garrison and I was the commander of its loyal troop, fighting off make-believe foes with sticks and stones.
When we’d visit in autumn, the sycamores would lay a golden carpet all around the springhouse. I was particularly drawn to the place at that time of year. As I got older, I would sit on the slate-topped stone wall that formed the front of the springhouse, with my back against a corner post, and read for hours on end, fully absorbed in the quiet coolness of that special setting. Looking back on my later-teen years, I’d have to say that some of my very important long-term plans were prayerfully developed in the shadows of that old shack.
That springhouse will always be a sacred place to me. For an adolescent, it was a safe haven — a place where life took a shady side road, skirting arduous arithmetic assignments, playground bullies, and the increasing business in the burgeoning Levittowns that were epitomizing East Coast life as I knew it. For a young man, walking down to that springhouse was like going to visit a trusted friend — one who provided a link to my past, but moreover, cared about my future.
Every few years, I’d get a chance to return to my Ohio roots . . . and witness how time has whittled away at the old homestead. Today, the wide swath of grass that used to be a main road ends in a thicket just beyond where the house used to stand. The rails, ties, and ballast that formed the spur line are long gone. Two of my cousins have divided up the property. The coal shed has disappeared. So have the smokehouse and the other outbuildings. Grass is the only thing that now grows on the hillsides that were once furrowed fields. But the springhouse remains. A stubborn survivor of change, it yet sits at the foot of the hill like a proud monument to the power of place. But even if it were gone, it would still be there in my mind, and I would occasionally visit it and relive the moments that I savored in its shelter.
All of us have a need for such private places in our lives — places of peace where we can go for a reprieve from routines and explore our innermost feelings — natural settings of sanctity where we can, as Christ followers, ponder the promises of Scripture and seek the heart of God.
Jesus, Himself, retreated to such private places on a reoccurring basis — probably more often than we’re even told in Scripture. After all, it was His Father who pointed out, as far back as Genesis, that rest and reflection needed to follow a marked time of toil. Whether it was to clear his mind or to get clear direction, Jesus would disengage from the demanding crowds or His conventional confines and escape to a quiet place in the open air — a garden, a mountainside, the seashore, the wilderness.
That’s exactly what Judi and I found during our multi-month Scotland escape. The indigo loch reflecting the firmament, the castle turrets beneath the rocky craigs, the sound of circling seagulls, the Kyle-bound train passing by on the opposite shore, the distinct smell of coal smoke from a dozen different chimneys: This was our backdrop for treasured memories that will increase in value as the years roll by. The power of place enriched our deep conversations on long hikes and short walks.
Where is your private place where you can temporarily let the rest of the world roll by? A Highlands village worked perfectly for us, but you don’t have to go to a distant land. Your special place can be the porch of a cabin nestled in the pines beside a placid lake, a long wooden dock on a wide lake, or even a small gazebo in a backyard garden where the noise of the neighborhood can be temporarily turned down. If you don’t have such places in your life, I strongly encourage you to find one and retreat to it as often as you can. We all need regular respites from the rush. We need a quiet place where we can make memories and engage in meaningful meditation to soothe our soul.
Until the day he died, Dewey drew his water from an ancient spring at the base of the hill that held his house. Some of my kinfolk back in those southeastern Ohio hollows swear it was the untreated water that killed him, but since he lived to be 92, their arguments are a lot shallower than that old spring must have been. Every morning, with pail in hand, he would bound off his back porch and head down the well-worn path to pull up enough drinking and washing water to get him through another day.
It was probably the area’s first permanent settlers who deepened the spring’s basin and lined it with slate. At some point a tin roof was purportedly raised overtop to protect the pool from falling leaves and debris. By the time Dewey came along there was standing a 10’ x 15’ cement-floored springhouse. The overhanging pitched roof covered the actual spring. Behind the wide wooden door, the water flowed through a trough in the floor, along the north wall. It was a place where melons and steel cans of raw milk were kept cool. The elevated portion of the floor was where my grandfather stored the sacks of potatoes he harvested from his fields up behind the house, or the apples he picked from the orchard in the side yard. The air inside had a dank, earthy smell, but with a strange scent of sweetness.
During my childhood, all my Ohio aunts and uncles lived in the rural regions surrounding the Gillogly homestead. Some were close enough that they could hear the report of Dewey’s shotgun echoing through the hills. I, on the other hand, was a distant relative in the literal sense of the term, growing up in ever-progressive New Jersey. But once or twice a year, my parents would head west in our Hudson Hornet for a Buckeye visit, and I would reconnect with my cousins. We’d scamper through the cornfields, get dirty in the coal shed, get wet in the creek, catch snakes in the stone foundation of the smokehouse, and look for treasures along the rails of the New York Central spur line that ran through the woods, just west of the house.
But on those warm August afternoons, when my parents and I had Grandpa and the farm to ourselves, I would eventually wander away from the grown-up discourse and find my way to the springhouse. There, I would lie on the bank and stare up into the bright green canopy of the sycamore trees that towered overhead. I’d study the twisted branches and watch squirrels leap from limb to limb. I would close my eyes and try to distinguish the calls of the cardinals from those of the robins. With my eyes still closed I would ponder life (as deeply as a nine-year old can ever ponder anything). When my imagination awoke, I would pretend that the springhouse was a garrison and I was the commander of its loyal troop, fighting off make-believe foes with sticks and stones.
When we’d visit in autumn, the sycamores would lay a golden carpet all around the springhouse. I was particularly drawn to the place at that time of year. As I got older, I would sit on the slate-topped stone wall that formed the front of the springhouse, with my back against a corner post, and read for hours on end, fully absorbed in the quiet coolness of that special setting. Looking back on my later-teen years, I’d have to say that some of my very important long-term plans were prayerfully developed in the shadows of that old shack.
That springhouse will always be a sacred place to me. For an adolescent, it was a safe haven — a place where life took a shady side road, skirting arduous arithmetic assignments, playground bullies, and the increasing business in the burgeoning Levittowns that were epitomizing East Coast life as I knew it. For a young man, walking down to that springhouse was like going to visit a trusted friend — one who provided a link to my past, but moreover, cared about my future.
Every few years, I’d get a chance to return to my Ohio roots . . . and witness how time has whittled away at the old homestead. Today, the wide swath of grass that used to be a main road ends in a thicket just beyond where the house used to stand. The rails, ties, and ballast that formed the spur line are long gone. Two of my cousins have divided up the property. The coal shed has disappeared. So have the smokehouse and the other outbuildings. Grass is the only thing that now grows on the hillsides that were once furrowed fields. But the springhouse remains. A stubborn survivor of change, it yet sits at the foot of the hill like a proud monument to the power of place. But even if it were gone, it would still be there in my mind, and I would occasionally visit it and relive the moments that I savored in its shelter.
All of us have a need for such private places in our lives — places of peace where we can go for a reprieve from routines and explore our innermost feelings — natural settings of sanctity where we can, as Christ followers, ponder the promises of Scripture and seek the heart of God.
Jesus, Himself, retreated to such private places on a reoccurring basis — probably more often than we’re even told in Scripture. After all, it was His Father who pointed out, as far back as Genesis, that rest and reflection needed to follow a marked time of toil. Whether it was to clear his mind or to get clear direction, Jesus would disengage from the demanding crowds or His conventional confines and escape to a quiet place in the open air — a garden, a mountainside, the seashore, the wilderness.
That’s exactly what Judi and I found during our multi-month Scotland escape. The indigo loch reflecting the firmament, the castle turrets beneath the rocky craigs, the sound of circling seagulls, the Kyle-bound train passing by on the opposite shore, the distinct smell of coal smoke from a dozen different chimneys: This was our backdrop for treasured memories that will increase in value as the years roll by. The power of place enriched our deep conversations on long hikes and short walks.
Where is your private place where you can temporarily let the rest of the world roll by? A Highlands village worked perfectly for us, but you don’t have to go to a distant land. Your special place can be the porch of a cabin nestled in the pines beside a placid lake, a long wooden dock on a wide lake, or even a small gazebo in a backyard garden where the noise of the neighborhood can be temporarily turned down. If you don’t have such places in your life, I strongly encourage you to find one and retreat to it as often as you can. We all need regular respites from the rush. We need a quiet place where we can make memories and engage in meaningful meditation to soothe our soul.
