John Robert Held, 74

There are many good reasons to read the obituaries, not the least of which is some personal relationship to the recently deceased. But starting in my early 50’s, I found myself reading them every day, every last one of them in the local paper.

At first I only glanced at the names and ages and skimmed the details, then began to measure my (hmm, I'm not as young as I used to be) age against those who had recently gone to their ultimate reward. Of course, as time passed, the average age of those dying started to creep down toward my own and I began to run a rough mental calculus on the relative age of the entire body of departed souls.

Soon however, I developed an intense interest in the people themselves and the lives they had lived, particularly those of my parent's generation who went through so much and said so little about it. On many occasions I am now simply amazed at where these people started, what they accomplished and how they lived their lives. Sometimes it's possible to read between the lines and tease out a wonderful, telling aspect of a person’s life. Many other times I am left wanting to know more, much more.

Now at last, having made a comfortable habit of reading the obits, I take immense pleasure in discovering a thoughtful, witty, heartfelt paean to someone's close relative. Such finds don't have to be profoundly well written or clever. They just have to capture the spirit of the person . . . which is not an easy task. This one does it.

John Robert Held, 74

John Robert Held, a longtime resident of Bolton, died in Boston on March 19, 2013. He was a vibrant 74 years old. Rob was never happier then (sic) when he could get his hands dirty clearing trails or pulling invasive weeds, and he was always looking for an excuse to run around the woods with his chainsaw. Rob often said that every day after 70 is a gift and he lived life to the fullest to the very end. He loved to ski, hike, climb and putter in his garden, and he took every chance to raise a glass with family and friends. When he died he was simultaneously planning a ski trip to Jackson Hole, a full knee replacement, and a family trip to Switzerland. He died surrounded by his family and dear friends, by tears and raucous laughter. Goodnight sweet prince. You were our best friend.

Worcester Telegram - Sunday, March 24, 2013, Page B6

" . . . every day after 70 is a gift." A person could live a long and happy life simply by keeping that phrase front and center in their mind, no matter what their age.

Only Yesterday: Golf

Golf is a funny game. For those who disdain the players or simply don't understand the attraction, no explanation will suffice. Nonetheless, a pastime that has survived in any recognizable form since at least the mid-1500's must have something very strong at its core that appeals to the spirit and soul of men (and, to a lesser extent apparently, women).

One Man's Passions . . . Guitars & Golf
Stonewall Jackson Memorial Cemetery, Lexington, Virginia

Having tried many times (with only modest success) to explain that appeal, I was delighted recently to come upon a brief story that illustrates, explicitly, in the life of one person, both sides of the mystery. 

One hot afternoon during the summer of about 1910 my father had come home from his law office and after the usual fifteen-minute chase of Nelly, our horse, about the pasture lot she was worked into a corner and captured after which she submitted to being harnessed to the surrey. My brother and I and three or four of our playmates with my father driving were on our way to Cave Spring for an afternoon's swimming lesson in the shallow water below the dam, known as Layburn's Dam. The horse plodded up the steep rocky road past Mulberry Hill and then along the north side of the golf links. A foursome of golfers were moving about on the other side of the fence.

"I don't see," said my father after we had passed the golfers, "how grown-up men can spend the afternoon hitting a little white ball around through the grass." We went on to Cave Spring and had our swimming lesson but it was one of the last ones we had because a few days later one of my father's friends who played golf persuaded him to try it. He did and from that day on he was, I believe, one of the most enthusiastic golfers that ever lived. He bought some clubs and joined the Golf Club and for the next nearly forty years he played every day that he possibly could. He played at all seasons and in all weather. Rain or shine it did not matter to him. Snow was the only thing that ever slowed him down. At that time it was against the law to play golf on Sundays, but on Sunday afternoons he went to the links and just walked around the course.

 Only Yesterday in Lexington, Virginia - John Seymour Letcher (1974)

This short excerpt also captures the soft and poignant regret of those left behind in the wake of a newly passionate golfer. I'm not that golfer, but I completely understand why he would want to just walk around the course on Sunday.

Only Yesterday: Walking Barefoot

Lexington, Virginia is a beautiful town now tucked into the crook of I-81 & I-64 in the western part of the state. My mother was born there and her parents lived nearby on an isolated farm in Bath County after their retirement. During my early youth I spent many happy days with them

My Maternal Grandfather

My Maternal Grandmother

and avidly listened to their stories of times past and events that occurred in and around Lexington.

Recently, I chanced upon a memoir written by John Seymour Letcher who was a contemporary of my grandparents and whose book has given me another, more detailed, view of life in Lexington at the beginning of the 20th century. Here’s an excerpt about the Covenanter Camp which, as shown by photographs in the book, my grandfather’s cousins attended along with the author.

During the late afternoon of a day close to the tenth of July during the years between 1910 and 1915 numerous small boys bound for the Covenanter Camp could be seen transporting by almost any means mattress rolls and small chests to the Sunday School room of the Presbyterian Church. [These] were piled in the Sunday School room and early the following morning were loaded into a large wagon drawn by team of horses for transport to the camp site a Copper’s Bottom, nine miles up the North River from Lexington, where an advance guard of councilors and older boys had gone several days earlier to pitch the tents and prepare the camp for occupancy before the younger boys and girls arrived. Very early the same morning groups of smaller boys would start walking the nine miles of dusty road to the camp. Because of the heat an early start was advised. Most of the boys were barefooted.

Only Yesterday in Lexington, Virginia - John Seymour Letcher (1974)

Yes, I agree, an early start would be advised.