Dad taught us boys not to fight with our sisters, but my five brothers and I had some terrible fights. One of them got so mad at me he climbed a tree carrying a sharp-ended maple shaft that he threw down at me like a spear. It went through the muscle of my arm. I jerked it out and knocked him off his perch. I’ve still got a knot in that muscle. It’s a little reminder of what growing up was like.

Dad made us boys climb trees and hang onto the branches when he cut them so we wouldn’t be afraid of heights or falling. I’ll never forget my first lesson like that.

“All right, Carroll!” He ordered. “Get up that tree and be quick about it!”

I saw the heavy stick in his hand and started up the rough trunk. A few feet from the ground I stopped and looked down.

I didn’t want to go any farther up that tree but I had seen what he’d done to the older guys when he was teaching them.

“Get up there or I’ll whale you!”

I was scared to go up but I was more afraid of Dad.  I moved a foot or two and stopped again. The instant I stopped he whacked the tree with his club.  “I told you to get up there!”

I went on up the tree, a foot at a time, with him shouting every time I stopped. I guess I was more afraid of him than I was the tree because I went to the top. He cut it down and I realized I could ride the tree to the ground without getting killed. After a month or two he started felling the tree so I would be on the bottom unless I scrambled to the other side of the trunk before it hit the ground.

By this time Dad was getting a lot of jobs trimming trees and cutting down a lot of trees in cities where there was great danger of ruining buildings or cars. It was an exacting job. These jobs were interspersed between other regular jobs. We would tie each end of a rope to a limb about a foot apart. Then we would cut the limb between the rope ends and the section would be lowered to the ground. In order to do that we had to work in the tops of the trees without being afraid of falling. I got picked to do the high stuff, so ended up at meetings of the Maine Arbor’s Association to learn new skills.

It wasn’t long until we were making a game of it when we were in the wood lot. For fun one of us would climb a tree and another would cut it down.  The guy in the tree wouldn’t know which way the one with the saw was going to drop it.

We were trimming trees in front of the Jim Autoback Hospital in Bangor, Maine, when I almost got killed. I was thirteen or so. We were taking down a big elm with a trunk about five feet in diameter at the stump. I started at the top and was cutting it down piece by piece. I was working about ninety feet up at a crotch in the tree when Dad told me it was about dinner time and not to bother tying the -clutch knot on the saddle.

I should have tied it anyway, but I liked being free so I could jump from limb to limb, scaring the people below.

Dad called up to me again. “Come on down. I’ll handle the rope from this end.”

I looked down at the big coil of rope and saw that he had it around the tree for added leverage. I remember thinking,” Man, I wonder if he can hold me or not.”

But I let go of the limb. At the same time Dad flipped the rope trying to get some slack. It jerked out of his hand and I went end over end, right for the street. I could see myself going right to Hell. I never even thought about landing. I just thought of the terrible things I’d done and figured, “this is it.” Suddenly things snubbed. I had one hand on the rope when it snubbed and the other hit the sidewalk. I was within eighteen inches of slamming to the concrete on my back.

I looked up and there was Dad up in the tree, hanging on to the rope with both hands. If he hadn’t caught it I’d have been dead for sure. I still don’t know how he managed to catch the uncoiling rope, but he did. He had gloves on or he would never have made it.

Dad was something of a daredevil himself. He used to ride his motorcycle like a maniac when I was small. I suppose he was half drunk, which he usually was, -during that time.

There were occasions when Dad was fighting with my mother or beating the tar out of my younger brothers and sisters so hard that I could hardly stand it. He did the same to me, but it seemed worse when he was abusing Mom, or the girls, or the younger kids.

One night when I was thirteen or fourteen, there was a terrible row. I could hear Dad yelling at Mom from another part of the house and it seemed to go on all night. I finally decided that I had to do something about it.

How I reached the conclusion to kill him, I don’t know, but that is what I decided. I was going to put a stop to the misery and heartache and pain he was causing all of us.

I had been using a rifle long enough to be a crack shot, even at my age, and I had laid awake most of the night making my plans. The next morning I got my .30-.40 Craig army rifle and went into the woods near the path he would be using. I hid behind a big beech tree where I had could see the path without being seen. I plugged in the shells, cocked the rifle and waited.

As he came along sweat stood out on my forehead and I was shaking until I raised the gun to my shoulder. By then my experience with a rifle took over. I was rock-steady and as determined as I had ever been to do anything. I got his head in the sight and moved my finger toward the trigger, following him as he walked slowly through the woods toward the place were we had been working.

My guardian angel must have been with me that time, too. At that moment I had never hated anyone more than I hated him. I was determined to shoot him so we would be rid of him. One move of my trigger finger would have killed him and I would have ruined my life and the lives of my entire family. But God, in His mercy protected me.

How I thank Him for that! I thank Him; too, that, eventually, He wiped away the hatred I harbored in my heart for my Dad. In its place He gave me genuine love for Dad. But that was to come later.  Much later.

Mom did what she could to see that we kids received Christ as our Saviour. She had us in Sunday school and church every Sunday when it was possible. I learned to read using a little old King James Bible. Then I read everything I could get my hands on. I remember getting saddle sores from reading Zane Grey books late into the night by lamp light. I really got into the story.

That was another strange thing about Dad. He set up a family altar in our home for a time. No matter how hard we had been working or how late we got home, we had to read around. If one of us said the wrong thing or mispronounced a word, or if we started to fall asleep while someone else was reading, he’d bat us good. You couldn’t say our family altar was exactly a religious session, but it did teach us some things.

Once when the pastor came to our place to visit, my little sister sat on his knee. He was bouncing her and apparently she didn’t like it. She looked up at him and cut loose with a string of swear words that would have made a lumberjack blush.

“Where did you learn that?” the preacher asked, horrified.

“My Dad always talks that way,” she told him.

Dad gave her a strapping after the pastor left.  Years after Dad left home, I flew out to Washington State to see him. Before he died I had to let him know I really appreciated the principles he taught us even though he didn’t always apply them himself.  He had taught us many things in spite of the way he treated us. We learned to work and work hard. He had taught us to tithe and not to swear. I was deathly afraid of swearing. I thought I’d be struck dead before the swear words were out. The things he taught us at home helped me a great deal on the mission field. I thanked him for the things he taught me.  “I can’t think of anything I taught you that you could thank me for,” he said, bitterly.

For the first time I realized that he deeply regretted the way he had treated us. My sister said he got his life straight with the Lord just before he died. I can only hope so.

We had some interesting neighbors when I was a kid. I’ll never forget old Harvard Tait. He drove a team, hauling kids to school in the early years, then drove school bus right up until he died. He used to eat a dozen eggs for breakfast and salted everything, even his cake. He salted it until it was white and, sure enough, it killed him-at ninety three. He was a good friend of mine and wrote me even after I went north.  A lady by the name of Mrs. Herick had an orchard next to the school. Believe me it took a beating, especially in the fall when the apples were on.  One summer we lived across the road from the Blodgett family and, when I was old enough to go out with girls, I dated two of the Blodgett daughters. As we called it, we took them to young peoples meetings.  I don’t know whether I set things up for my brothers or not, but two of them married the Blodgett girls.  That summer we cut on a big woodlot there in Sebec, Maine. I started driving truck in the woods when I was twelve and eventually hauled to the mills.  This particular summer I had to do the trucking, so Mom traveled with me a lot helping load. We worked hard but I have to admit there was variety.  Sometimes it was driving truck, working in the bush, driving tractor or off on a tree trimming job (this was big money). Life was not dull for Mom either. She had to be ready for anything.

Like I’ve said, we always had to be working. We were in 4-H and had projects like raising calves and chickens, cooking and other things. Mom taught us to sew, as well. She often had a quilt ready to work on in case there was a storm so we couldn’t get out in the woods. I learned to feather stitch and all the rest.  And so did my brothers and sisters.  If she didn’t have anything for us to do in the house we had to be out in the barn working. Dad couldn’t stand to see us idle, even for an hour.  I only got to Bible Camp once when I was a kid.  Two single, lady teachers paid my way. I don’t know why they chose me, except that they had a brother about my age. Dad didn’t seem to mind my going.  He must have been trying to impress them and the others who attended our church.

Dad was great at trying to snow visiting evangelists, missionaries and preachers. We had a steady procession of them visiting in our home. Ernie Klassen, Ken Robins, Mark Bredin, Harold Duff, Mac MacKenzie and a host of others came our way. We also got to hear a number of well known evangelists such as Hyman Appleman, John R. Rice and Jim Vos. It seemed as though the outstanding evangelists of that day were always coming to our area. All of this had a great effect on our lives as a family. I learned much from having missionaries and Bible teachers in our home.

When I was twelve years old, Hyman Appelman came to our area for special meetings. Anyway, we went to Bangor to hear him and I went forward in response to the invitation. A lot of people went forward that night, but this one counselor took another guy about my age and me into a back room and gave us a copy of the Gospel of John. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Wait for me.”

But he never did come back. We stayed there as long as we dared and were going to miss our ride home if we stuck around any longer, so we took off.  I don’t know what happened to him, but it sure messed up my life. The next six years were a living hell for me. I didn’t know whether I was a Christian or not. I wanted to be saved, but there was a continual struggle going on inside.

When I went to church, which I did regularly, I would wonder if I was a Christian or not. I’d get down on my knees at home and pray, asking God to save me. Nobody knew about it but I even cried, I was so upset. But when I got up again it seemed as though there was no change in my life.

I had heard the gospel that Jesus Christ had died for our sins, then was buried and rose again.  Somehow I wasn’t really trusting the Lord. I found myself trying to do the job myself, like so many I have talked to since. I finally realized that Christ had paid the price of my sin with His own blood and that by not trusting Him alone, I was calling God a liar. (1 John 5:9-1 1). It was little wonder I had such a struggle.  Later it came home to me that if I could save myself, then Christ had died for nothing. I knew He had really suffered for my sin to redeem me.

When I was a kid, I habitually wet the bed and Dad made me sleep in the barn. I was terribly ashamed of it and thought for a long time that there was something wrong with me. The way Dad treated me didn’t help.

In school we were looked down on as low class.  Just a bunch of jerks from Jungle Town. We did have one teacher who was really kind to our family. She had taught my mother before us and probably knew more about our family than we thought. Our family had worked for her husband pulling beans and cutting wood. She would take up for us and give us encouragement.

I remember going back to see her on furlough from the mission field. I’d walk into her class and she would stop everything and give me a big hug and kiss right in front of the students. She’d then tell her students I was one of her boys. I was no angel in school and got into trouble the odd time. Some teachers didn’t help the situation by taking sides against some of us.

The old woodshed in the one room school house became a familiar place. The lickings I got from the teachers were like love taps compared to the ones from Dad. Sometimes I had to laugh, which didn’t help.

I remember one day sneaking out of the woodshed and running to my uncle Gerald’s farm two miles away. I ploughed all afternoon with his John Deere tractor, then ran to catch the bus that afternoon so I could work in the bush. If I had missed the bus I would have been in real trouble.

Then there was the time I set up a magnifying glass with dry grass and tar paper. When the sun came up in the morning it caught fire and started to burn the old school house down.

However, it was discovered in time and the fire was snuffed out before it burned through the walls.  When we got through the eighth grade, Dad pulled us out of school and put us to work full time. I did like learning and hated to leave school. He told us where to work if we weren’t working for him. Only we didn’t get to keep our wages. He collected them for us and we never saw the money. He made pretty good on our wages.

When .1 was a little older we went to Uncle Herb’s to work for a summer. My uncle did landscaping and worked for some of the millionaires and movie stars who owned homes on the Maine Coast near Ogunquit Beach. He used to take care of the place that belonged to Jack Smart, the radio personality who played the “Fat Man” on a radio detective serial. We put in a lawn for him, a putting green and the whole bit. I also worked for Doris Day.

That was what I did in the daytime. At night I sneaked out and got in with a gang of guys my age.  We weren’t as bad as the gangs today but we terrorized the townspeople in that little community. I used to say we specialized in finding things before they were lost.

The kid who lived next door to where we were staying, was known as “Dynamite Ken.” He was a little shrimp. I suppose he wanted to get our attention and he sure did. He fooled around with chemicals, even making dynamite in the basement of his parents’ home. It was powerful stuff and he could have blown up both himself and his folks’ house if something had gone wrong.

We set off our charges and wrecked gardens and, in general, raised a ruckus in the neighborhood. We didn’t use it to destroy expensive property but we did a lot of things I’m ashamed of now.  I suppose I did some bragging about being in a lumber camp and, being heavier and stronger than most of them, they made me the leader of the gang.  That went on all summer and I was afraid Dad would find out what I’d been into. I got the gang together and warned them that if they ever squealed on me, or told anyone that I was in their gang they would have to deal with me. I didn’t have any takers.  Not long after I left, there was a big hassle and they beat up three cops. Two or three were finally caught but they never did squeal on me. I was always sorry that I hadn’t become a Christian before I left so I could have talked to them about the Lord.  One good thing did come out of that. When I’m asked to go to jails to speak, I really understand where the guys who are locked up are coming from.  I’ve tried and tried hard to figure Dad out in the years I was growing up and I still can’t. He never would work on Sunday or have us kids work. After he quit drinking he was in church with us nearly every Sunday. We would take up two rows in our church, right down front. He tithed his own money and taught us kids to tithe. We’d get whipped for the least movement in church. Because of the rheumatism in my legs I couldn’t keep still. I learned to dance at an early age at the end of Dad’s belt.

People looked at all of us in church and some who didn’t know us very well, thought we were a wonderful family. That was exactly what Dad wanted them to think. Let a visiting evangelist or missionary come to speak and Dad would give him $50 or a $100, and they thought he was a tremendous Christian. I still meet older missionaries who remember that.  In spite of the fact that Dad quit drinking, was in church nearly every Sunday, and wouldn’t think of working on the Lord’s Day, he hadn’t changed at home. I came home one night when I was 15 or 16.  As I stepped into the house, Dad hit me with his fist, knocking me out the door and on my back. I didn’t have a clue as to why he hit me. I still don’t know what that blow was for. It might have been for something one of the other kids did, or he might not have had a reason at all.

That was the way he treated us. One of the other kids would come in and say, “Dad wants to see you in the barn.” I’d head out there and, Wham! Bang!, I’d be knocked across the barn into(one of the stalls and I’d never know what it was for.

He didn’t have to have an explanation for slamming us around. If something went wrong the nearest kid got it, whether he deserved it or not.  If something we were using broke, he’d take it out on all of us till he found out who did it. Then that one would catch it double. But we wouldn’t squeal on each other and that used to make him furious. He’d threaten to shoot us or he’d pick up an axe and come toward us swinging it.

He had made a whip out of a long stick and a piece of hay wire to use on the horses. If we happened to do something when he had that whip in his hand that’s what we got, too. It would wrap itself around us and hook right in, leaving ridges all over us. Growing up around our place was tough.

The Joy of Christ

May the joy of Christ be mine.
May I at His table dine.
Just to know His peace and rest,
And in Him be fully blest.

The Stars at Night

The stars at night, the birds in flight,
The eye gives light and reveals God’s might. 
From the mighty trees to the gentle breeze,
It is with ease, God handles these.
Hard life near gone brings a brighter morn
For it’s on the thorn that the rose is borne.

At the old place when Patty was a baby.	Sitting in front of my Mom.