the wind and i just come and go

Category: Family History

People Design Their Lives Around Unverifiable Ideas Masquerading as Absolute Truth

The title of this post comes from my youngest daughter, Katie, who is a pretty good scribbler in her own right, being the only person I know who actually makes pretty decent money writing stuff for other people. With a masters degree in English (rhetoric) and a job as an editor, now ten years on – she’s built up some credentials, particularly with her proud dad, so this line hit me like a ton of bricks, because even though I changed it a little, it still reflects an insight I have never been sure that we shared.

Combined with my recent reading, listening and re-reading a book called Zealot by Reza Aslan, an American of Middle Eastern descent who was raised as a casual Muslim, converted to Christianity in his teens, later began to question the details of scriptures of the ancient faiths, and returned to his Muslim roots, and my own skepticism, her statement was timely. For those of you who don’t know all of the gory details of my upbringing, I was raised in a home where conflict was the centerpiece, and religion was a good part of that conflict. My mother was a converted Catholic, converted only by virtue of the fact that she married my dad, and the only way she would have been accepted into my paternal grandparents orbit was to convert to something Protestant. My dad was pretty ambivalent about religion – he had opinions, but pretty much kept to himself. His father was a respected preacher and teacher and Bible scholar in an obscure Adventist sect called the Church of God of the Abrahamic Faith, now based in Morrow, GA.

Armed with an undergraduate degree in History and a burning curiosity for family history and research, I know the inaccuracies of transcribed, translated and oral histories even after a generation, let alone centuries – when compared to the factual, documented records set down at the time. Let me provide an example: My work-study job at WSU-Oshkosh was as a research assistant for Dr. Robert Chaffin, who was writing a thesis on the trans-Appalachian migration in North America after the American Revolution. This was prior to the age of the Personal Computer and the internet, so research was laborious, and slow, because it was dependent on inter-library transfers of books, documents and manuscripts. When, a few years later I began researching my family’s history, the short answers from my dad’s sisters was that their great grandfather had gone west on the Oregon Trail and was never heard from again. In other words, “Shut up, kid.” “Leave it alone, kid”.

From my research, I knew that over 98% of adult pioneers who struck out on the trail west reached there destinations, and of those who died, a high percentage were mothers who died in childbirth. Old John B. didn’t qualify, so I knew there was a very good chance that he was out there. When I finally did find him in the records of the State of Washington, and was able to contact another family member who was also researching his line, he told me that all of John B.’s children back east had died along with their mother during the potato famine in Iowa. When I carefully pointed out that if that had been the case, my great grandfather, Thomas Hamilton Lindsay would have been among that group and we would not be having this conversation. He mumbled something and hung up – I assume he hung up because the facts required him to change his view of an unverified idea masquerading as absolute truth. (Truth was that the potato famine about that time was in Ireland, and the disease that killed Margaret Norman Lindsay was cholera, which was epidemic anywhere there was standing water). His published records on the internet remain unchanged 20 years later, even though I am in regular contact with other family members from his second family that he raised after his first wife died in Iowa. Soooo… when we are sitting around 60-70 years later writing an account of the “facts” surrounding Jesus death, crucifixion and supposed resurrection, is it reasonable to claim divine inspiration to make it factually true, or at least believable?

There are hundreds of Christian denominations, sects, and even cults thundering that they have the answer, or that they are right – all people of good will, honest in their intentions, but some or all of them MUST be wrong! I know alot of people (in the unlikely event they would read this) whose heads would explode because I am skeptical. I am not a non-believer, but I am skeptical of what quite possibly are man-made “facts” which we are asked to take on “faith”.  Every time I’ve tried to swallow something whole, it hasn’t turned out well.   Multiple conferences of less than pious men over hundreds of years conferencing about what is “in” and what “isn’t” like fifth graders trading baseball cards is a little dubious.  Most of our images were painted on  walls and ceilings of churches and convents and abbeys  in the middle ages by guys who weren’t necessarily the church’s favorite sons.

Everybody believes what they feel they want to based on what they need.  I’m good with that.  But I’m trying to figure this out for the last sixty years because I’m honestly curious,  and I have a problem with concentration anyway.  So don’t confuse me with what you believe to be undisputed (if unverified) truth when the guy sitting next to you thinks you’re nuts.  Not everybody can be, or is “right”.  A man whom I consider pretty smart once said to me, “It may be a truth, but “the” truth is another matter.”  I spent thirty five years in the insurance business, and all you have to do to learn about different versions of the truth is read depositions in a civil case, or interviews from an accident report.  My Catholic friend Fred says the hottest fires in hell are reserved for the skeptics and the unsure.  I hope he’s wrong, but I respect him for who he is, and that he can accept and be disciplined in his beliefs.

So these are my terms.  Believe what you believe based on what you need.  I might well ask you some questions – but I might not.  If I do, it will have to be an honest discussion.   I’m really curious.  It seems like there should be something more, but like someone else said to me, no one wonders where we were before we were born, why is it so hard to believe that we just go to dust when we are done living.   Can we just not humble ourselves sufficiently to believe it is just, well… over?  Conversing with my dad a few weeks before he died, I was curious how he, a preacher’s kid, the son of a man who by all accounts could bring down thunder when he was preaching a sermon, viewed what came next, knowing full well he was at or near the end.  “Well, Johnny, I’m not sure, but I have a great curiosity for what comes next.  I’m pretty sure we just go to sleep.  Like everyone else, I’m not afraid of dying, it’s the process.”



This is supposed to be an essay about hyperbole, and how it sometimes just annoys the hell out of me. For some reason, thinking about hyperbole and the way it is often abused caused me to think about the title word of a “song” from Isaac Hayes 1969 album, “Hot Buttered Soul”. Still one of my favorites, it was one of those things that didn’t exactly sit well at home, even though by then I had been gone for almost three years, give or take. But Isaac, did you need all that? It’s great music – let it ride.

I am very fortunate to have had a series of teachers of English, Composition and Literature that had high expectations. They rotated in and out of my life from grade school through college, and I think I came away with a firm grip on the English language. My background, working class, blue collar, living next to the railroad tracks, and virtually “growing up” in the business end of an auto repair shop, taught me some things (and some words) that I’m not necessarily proud of, but let’s just say that if somebody erupts with a string of cuss words, I can translate for anyone who’s interested.

The working guys I’ve known – and I’ve known alot, are generally pretty creative when it comes to composition of their profanity. More than a few times I couldn’t help but laugh with a frustrated mechanic who came up with a magnificent description of a burned out truck clutch, even though it probably cost him a few extra minutes in the confessional. I think most of us are pretty good about using the words we have to get through our daily obligations, and therein lies my frustration: the people who insist on using words that the rest of us know about, but wouldn’t necessarily use in everyday conversation – and are in most cases, unnecessary.

Example: A middle aged co-worker who, when I appeared angry over something, asked me why I was so “vexed” – Really? We were in the warehouse of a fastener distributor, and I was hacked about somebody (him) not carrying their weight on the job, which was putting one of my customers behind the 8-ball. Vexed was not a word that would jump right out at that moment. “Magnificent” is another. Something needs to be pretty good to bring it up to “magnificent”. I’ve seen the Grand Canyon, Waimea Canyon, the Jungfrau in the Alps and all of those rise up to meet “magnificent”. Oh, and Secretariat. That was one “magnificent” horse. Those things don’t come up in conversation much, though.

Good, solid wordcraft is what I’m after. If you have to sit and think about what word to use, maybe just let it be, and use whatever popped up first. Its easier for all of us that way.

Skeletons in the closet – sort of…

My family, brothers, sister and their children mostly, know that for many years I have worked on tracing the genealogy of the Lindsay family as well as other branches, including some of the in-laws (Scoppa, Hasslinger, Stokes, Ahrendt/Tozier, as well as Pam’s family, although her cousin Karen has done a ton of work on the Ordways.  Through this medium, I will try to bring the history as I know it to the present.  The oldest relative I am sure of is John B. Lindsay, Sr.  He is the great grandfather of my dad, my gg grandfather.  He was born in 1820 on Christmas day, according to a statement he made to a journalist in Clark County, Washington in about 1895, at the age of 73.  There is no record that I have been able to find where he mentions his parents, although he also stated for the journalist that he was born in Harrison County, Ohio.  We learned alot about him after I connected with Arnie Lindsay in Sheridan, OR, and later Roy J. Lindsay Jr., in Madison, SD.   Both are cousins from John B’s second marriage in Washington Territory in about 1856.  He first married Margaret Norman, who gave him five children. In April of 1849, John B. left his home in Muscatine County, Iowa, for the promised land of the Oregon Territory.  Margaret and her four children and stayed behind.  What John B. probably did not know was that she was pregnant with the fifth, Mary Margaret, when he left.  More to follow. Image