Not Flying Alone: An Autobiography

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Not Flying Alone

An Autobiography

AuthorHouse

The Awakening 2011

It's 4 a.m. and I'm wide awake.

"Write to Mark Hanson." Again and again.

Margaret is after me to do something, but what? I don't know Mark Hanson; of course, I do know about him. He's the presiding bishop of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America; I read his commentary each month on the last page of The Lutheran Magazine. Margaret knew him from a chance meeting at Chautauqua Institute during an annual gathering of Lutherans that meets every August.

Oh, all right, I'll see to it later — but "no, you'll do it right now."

So, I get up, drag out my typewriter and begin a letter (about what, I have no idea).

This was another of many encounters with Margaret's spirit. She died in January 2011, but shortly after, her spirit returned — apparently for the express purpose of getting me on track for salvation and eternal life. The message I received early on was, "If you want to get to where I am, get your act together."

What were these encounters like?

Was it a voice, an apparition of some sort, a bright light? It was none of these. It was a definite presence — a feeling of having someone very close to me, actually penetrating my mind, guiding, directing, and influencing everything I do.

Knowing that I would be hard to convince, Margaret took elaborate steps to prove to me that it was she, here in the apartment with me.

How would she do this? The first occurrence was immediately after her death when Pastor Mauthe was here to make arrangements for her funeral service. He said, "I know Margaret selected hymns and scripture readings for her service, but I wasn't able to find anything in the church files." A moment or two passed and then I got up and went to her Bible shelf (where there were at least ten choices). Without hesitation I took down the correct one and, needless to say, the hymns and scripture readings were inside.

I didn't dwell on it a great deal until sometime later when another event took place. I made an appointment with Pastor to discuss the disposition of Margaret's memorial fund that friends had so generously contributed to, amounting to about $900. Immediately, Pastor made clear to me that we couldn't do much with a gift of that amount, and suggested we combine it with the small gifts of others to do something meaningful.

"Absolutely not," I replied. "Margaret was a pillar of St. Matthew's and she needs to have her own legacy."

Pastor Mauthe continued, "What the church really needs are new pew torches for the Christmas Eve candlelight service." The ones we had were old, of wrought iron construction, and they clamped to the pews causing damage to the finish.

He took down a book with candelabra offerings. The ones preferred were about 5 feet tall, all-brass finish, and very attractive. They cost about $250 each and 34 were needed. The total cost would be between seven and eight thousand dollars, including the receptacles for their storage. He was about to reject the idea out of hand and put the book away when I spoke up without hesitation, saying that he should make arrangements to purchase them.

Pastor gave me a quizzical look, as if to say, "Are you sure?" Yes, I was quite sure because I was receiving input from Margaret.

There were so many unexplainable events, and I really didn't analyze them too much. I was grieving, confused, and in many ways disconnected.

Then, the big moment arrived: a life-changing, transcendent experience of being "filled with the Holy Spirit."

I was downstairs in our storage locker, sorting through Margaret's clothing to be donated, when I noticed a shopping bag up on the shelf. It had been there since we moved, and although I had no interest in it, I took it down and set it aside to take back to the apartment. After completing my project with the clothing, I brought it upstairs and set it by my chair for later consideration.

When I began examining the contents, I came upon a book containing an analysis of the musical compositions for Handel's Messiah. I had absolutely no interest in that, as Margaret was the music person. But as I leafed through it, an eight-page folder on grieving popped out.

It was from a seminar she attended long ago at the church. The pamphlet was quite explicit about what to expect during the various stages of grieving, both short-term effects and those longer into the process. Suddenly, it struck me that this was not a coincidence or some other phenomenon. Margaret was truly with me, guiding me, and helping me.

Nearly overcome with emotion, and without warning, an extreme feeling of calm and serenity swept over me. It was like an enormous wave, akin to an empty vessel being filled. It is hard to describe, but it was very real and exceedingly powerful. In an instant I was changed forever.

Previously, I had little interest in the church or any other religious pursuits. In fact, I seldom attended church even though we were members of St. Matthew's for over 40 years; Margaret had given up on me long ago.

One of the principal elements of my "gift" was an intense quest for knowledge — religious study centered on St. Paul. I started with Edgar J. Goodspeed's Paul and then continued with Barclay's complete series on Paul's letters, Great Course lectures, etc. I seemed to be able to assimilate vast amounts of text in a very short time.

Another element of my "gift" was clarity; I was suddenly quite sure about things I previously knew nothing about. An example was sitting down with a piece of paper and writing the word SALVATION in large letters. Under it I wrote "Total Faith in God," and next to it I wrote "Belief in Jesus Christ as our Savior," "the Resurrection," and "the power of the Holy Spirit." Finally I wrote "Love," as in the two great commandments — Love the Lord thy God, etc., and Love thy neighbor as thyself. That was my theology for the path to eternal life. The strange part was that I had no recollection of writing it. It was as if I were the instrument, not the author.

What a feeling! So completely well, as if half of my 85 years had been swept away. I felt energized, tranquil, born again. That sounds trite, but it truly is the best description.

What should I do now? Margaret didn't make this wonderful gift possible so that I could sit back and watch the world go by. An excellent place to begin is right here at Moravian Village, where I live. We have hundreds of people here, many nearing the end of their lives. Some, perhaps many, are without hope and unsure about what happens in their next chapter, eternity. (As to my own destiny, I no longer fear death.) We have our own Bible study group; perhaps I should talk to Gordon Sommers, our chaplain, about it.

I would not preach, but perhaps I could teach — Sunday school and Bible Study classes, for example. I have learned so much here at home and in classes I have taken at Moravian Theological Seminary. Perhaps I could share some of what I have learned.

I think of Billy Graham. Yes, I met Billy in the 1970s, when I was Captain R.A. Lemmon, United Airlines, flying Boeing 737s on "Tobacco Road" (airline slang for flights serving North Carolina).

Billy customarily boarded the plane at Asheville and flew with us to New York. Along the way at the various stops, he came up to the cockpit to visit — not about religion, just everyday "stuff." Billy struggled for his "gift of the Spirit." Beginning his ministry in Los Angeles, he knew something was missing and learned about a Welsh evangelist named Stephen Olford. He went to Wales, prayed with Stephen, and that is when Billy received his "gift of the Spirit."

For me, the "gift" just poured down out of heaven, seemingly through Margaret.

Perhaps by telling the story of my journey, I can help others. But to do that, I must revisit my career as an airline pilot, going farther back to the 1940s, the 1930s, and yes, even all the way back to the 1920s.

The Great Depression 1929-1941

I was born June 11, 1929, at home on West 23rd Street in Erie, Pa. Approaching the depth of the Great Depression, my parents, Paul and Pearl Lemmon, were upper-middle-class residents. Dad worked as an accountant at the Erie Foundry, and was sufficiently prosperous to buy a fruit farm west of Erie near the town of North Girard, Pa. In fact, he and his brother Dell owned adjoining farms, with a big sign out by the road that read, "Lemmon Farms, Fruits in Season."

The farms included peach orchards, pears, cherries (sweet and sour), and even grape vineyards. There were huge barns housing horses, cows, chickens, and pigs. Since they were located on the immediate shoreline of Lake Erie, the climate was tempered against fall frosts.

A few years before my arrival, a summer house (actually a cottage) was built on our farm. The Crash of '29 was disastrous for the Lemmon family. Dad lost his job and had to vacate our home on 23rd Street, and our family of six moved into the tiny farmhouse on Lake Road. I had three siblings: Richard, my only brother and the oldest, born in 1919, followed by sisters Mary Elizabeth (Betty) in 1921, and finally Margaret Ann (Peg) in 1927.

The farmhouse was not intended for year-round living; in fact, it was barely habitable for a family of six because of its small size and lack of indoor plumbing. The only source of water was a hand pump on the back porch outside the kitchen, and a wood-burning stove centrally located in the living room provided heat. The only toilet facility was outside in an outhouse. Hot water was obtained from the wood-burning cookstove in the kitchen. Refrigeration was provided by an icebox serviced by an iceman. I can still see him approaching the house with a 25- or 50-pound block of ice on his shoulder, protected by a rubber pad to keep from getting soaked.

Bathing required a trip down to Grandma's and Grandpa's house every Saturday night. Uncle Dell was not married and lived in the old original farmhouse with them. At least it had indoor plumbing and, of all things, gas for cooking and hot water. Natural gas was plentiful along the shore of Lake Erie and many farms had their own gas wells.

Typically, the whole family would go down to Grams' house for dinner and a bath. Times were hard, but food was abundant on the farm. We had vegetable gardens, and cows and pigs that were housed in a barn at Uncle Dell's.

A few highlights punctuate my memories of life on the farm in the early 1930s. An example was my first day at school in the fall of 1935. A bus traveled Route 5 each morning as far east as Avonia (about 4 miles), picking up farm kids. The elementary school for grades 1–8 was located in North Girard. The school was an ancient structure with a bell on top, a two-story building divided into eight classrooms. The wooden stairs were hollowed out after years of endless traffic up and down.

It was such an important day for me that I will never forget it. I recall getting off the bus, not knowing where to go, and being swooped up by a teacher who delivered me to the correct classroom for first grade.

I also remember having a BM accident duly noted by the teacher in a letter sent home with me. Dad was furious, and proclaimed, "I know how to handle that." At Uncle Dell's, there was an elevated spray tank containing at least 1000 gallons of water used for spraying the fruit trees. Dad announced that he was going to put me in the tank for a swim — but I didn't know how to swim yet.

I was terrified, kicking and screaming, as we went down the path to Uncle Dell's. As my father was carrying me up the tank ladder, my mother appeared, screaming, "Stop! Stop!" Dad did finally relent, but I always wondered if he was prepared to drown me in that tank. Needless to say, there were no more "accidents" at school.

Peg was two years ahead of me in school, and she became my teacher. Arriving home from school, she would corner me, eager to teach me everything she had learned that day. We were very close.

All hands worked diligently during the picking season, especially when harvesting sour cherries destined for the cannery. Our bonus was a swim in the cool water of Lake Erie at the end of the day.

In the fall during the Depression, people couldn't afford to buy our peaches. As we lay in bed in the quiet of the night, we could hear them dropping to the ground in the orchard — a total loss.

When winter came, it was very cold everywhere, including inside the farmhouse. I still remember the four piles of pajamas, one on each side of the stove where we dressed for school.

The south side of our property bordered the New York Central Railroad right-of-way. In those days there were no fences, so we were visited by our share of hobos riding the rails. The "bums," as Grams called them, would show up around three or four o'clock in the afternoon looking for food. Most would volunteer to work for their supper by cleaning stalls, weeding the garden, etc. Grams was quite generous with them, but she always made sure they did their share. These unfortunates were not as bad off as those in soup kitchen lines in the city. They migrated with the seasons, south and west, riding in boxcars. They all had interesting stories to tell, victims of the times.

Erie and Cleveland Before the War

By the summer of 1936, our situation had improved dramatically. Dad gave up the job search in Erie and took a position in Harrisburg working for the State of Pennsylvania. He considered moving the family there, but instead he rented a house for us in the city of Erie and relocated to Harrisburg by himself. His visits were rare and sporadic due to the distance involved. I'm sure it was very difficult for him living alone in a faraway place.

Part of the problem was that my two older siblings, Richard and Betty, were nearing graduation from high school. Even during those difficult times, Dad was committed to sending his kids to college.

Life in Erie was markedly improved from what it had been down on the farm, and our rental house was a palace in comparison to the farmhouse. Newly constructed Emerson Elementary School was only two blocks down the street — and for Peg and me, a world away from the schoolhouse in North Girard. Betty attended the brand-new Strong Vincent High on West Eighth, and Richard would soon be off to Kenyon College in Gambier, Ohio.

We weren't used to the heavy traffic of city streets, and Peg and I often sat on the corner of Eighth and Cascade seeing how many different license plates we could identify. Schoolyard activities included marbles, mumbly-peg, and swapping baseball cards.

Our rent was $38 per month, hamburger meat was 25 cents per pound, and a loaf of bread was a dime. The low prices meant that money could be stretched to some degree, but there just wasn't much to go around. Dad earned about $200 per month, out of which he paid his room rent and other meager expenses; the remainder was sent home. I recall instances nearing the end of the month when the evening meal consisted of breakfast cereal; however, we managed fairly well through 1937 and 1938, even with Richard attending college.

For Christmas, Peg and I received a small Boston terrier named Timmy. He was just a pup, and we loved him to death. He disappeared one day and Peg and I were frantic, looking everywhere. We finally found him upstairs; he had grown sufficiently to climb the stairs.

I recall a few other memories of our life on Cascade Street, such as having childhood diseases like measles, chicken pox and whooping cough. Peg suffered with earaches and cried incessantly. We were too poor to seek medical attention for her, and it progressed to mastoiditis, culminating in mastoidectomy surgery in 1937. That could have been avoided with proper medical care.

With all of today's preoccupation with health care, we only have to look back 75 years to see a different world — one with almost an absence of care for the poor. In those days, we wouldn't have classified ourselves as such but, in fact, we were.

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Excerpted from Not Flying Alone by R. A. (Ray) Lemmon. Copyright © 2015 Ray Lemmon. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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