Kathryn Griffin Swegart's Blog, page 3

Lost on a Mountain in Maine: Movie Review

It might surprise some of you that Saturday night in rural Farmington, Maine, the place was hopping, and the popcorn was popping. It was opening weekend for the movie, Lost on a Mountain in Maine. My husband and I settled in our seats amid a packed house at the Narrow-Gauge Cinema. I was excited to watch my favorite survival story that occurred in 1939. Here was the true story of twelve-year-old Donn Fendler who was lost for nine days on the treacherous slopes of Mt. Katahdin. This is an incredible tale of a boy’s grit as he teeters on the edge of death, alone in 100,000 acres of wilderness.

Until this movie was released, most people outside of Maine had never heard of Donn’s heroism, overcoming vicious insect attacks, bare feet torn by sharp rocks (he did lose a toe), and even an encounter with a startled bear. I first heard the story upon my relocation to Maine from Massachusetts. I listened to the audio version one day while driving on Interstate 95. So engrossed in the story, I nearly drove straight through a toll booth.

It was with some trepidation that my husband and I went to the movie. Would they water down the story? Would they change key events contributing to Donn’s survival? Thankfully, I was not disappointed.

Drone cinematography of Mt. Katahdin’s steep cliffs and thick forests outdid the book. It is one thing to write a description of the wilderness. To see the desolation showed beyond a shadow of a doubt Donn’s miraculous escape from certain death.

The film sticks closely to the book yet adds a different emphasis. We see the community of neighbors, hunters, military, and state rangers galvanize into one of the largest manhunts in state history. At one point a search plane flies directly over the lost boy. Filmmakers also chose to emphasize tensions in the Fendler family. Donn was portrayed as a defiant son, stubborn and disrespectful to his father. I do not believe this was accurate and wonder what Donn would think of it. It did slightly concern me, but poetic license was employed. Ultimately, that tension turned into a jubilant ending.

I also was curious to see if they would touch upon Donn’s deep faith. Throughout the ordeal, the boy had a strong sense that he was not alone. He sensed a presence and prayed fervently each day. In the movie, Donn stared at rays of sunlight streaming through the trees. He talked to God, “Please don’t leave me alone.” In real life, Donn was reticent to speak of his mystical experience but finally admitted that he believed his guardian angel saved him.

Actual interviews of Donn’s twin brother, his mother, and those involved in the search were woven into the film. We saw archival footage of his emotional return and even his meeting with President Franklin Roosevelt.

It is not often that moviegoers clap at the end of a show. As the credits rolled across the screen, the full house clapped, probably enthused that this Maine story will be shared with a wider audience. The film adaption of Fendler’s book was released in 650 theaters across the country.

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Whispers from the Grave

November is a stark time of year here on our small farm in Maine. Trees are stripped bare by blustery winds. Maple leaves, once bright and golden, cover the ground, now made brown and slimy by cold rains. Garlic and tulip bulbs lie buried under the hard soil, planted with the hope of new growth in the spring. 

Oh yes, how perfect to pray for the dead in gray November. I was struck with this thought on a our pilgrimage to Ireland last year. On the first day of our trip, the bus rolled into the parking lot at Glendalough, an early medieval monastic settlement built in the 6th century by St. Kevin.

The landscape of western Ireland is dotted with sheep, stone walls, and monastic ruins. Among the architectural wonders are round towers built hundreds of years ago by monks using limestone from local quarries.

I wandered through the cemeteries, reading the messages etched on gravestones. It felt like the dead were talking to me, asking for my prayers. Messages were etched on the gravestones: In your kindness, pray for me. All the markers faced toward the east in expectation of the Second Coming of Jesus at the end of time. Never had a walk among gravestones conveyed this powerful feeling. Cemeteries are a place of waiting. One day Jesus will come again and there will be a resurrection of the dead.

Every Sunday I say the Nicene Creed in which I express my belief in the resurrection of the dead. Have I really thought about what that means? The resurrection of the dead will precede the Last Judgment. Here is what the Catechism says.

This will be the hour when all who are in the tombs will hear the Son of Man’s voice and come forth, those who have done good, to the resurrection of life, and those who have done evil, to the resurrection of judgment.” (CCC 1038)

Imagine what these holy grounds looked like back in the heyday of St. Kevin’s monastery. It was a bustling community of workshops, guesthouses, an infirmary, farm buildings and dwellings for monks and a large lay population. Now they all lay buried, waiting for the sound of trumpets at the Second Coming.

In this somber month of November, let us all pray for the holy souls in Purgatory. May they rest in peace, through the mercy of God. Amen.

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Time of Wonder

Recently, my sister and I have collaborated on a family history book, a labor of love that stirs up memories of childhood. In one conversation we talked about a pivotal point in our lives, crucial in our development as life-time readers.  We grew up in a Boston suburb complete with sidewalks lined by elm trees. Atlantic Street was a busy road where trucks rumbled  by and drivers had to watch for kids playing catch in the street. One fine day, my mother gave me permission to cross the street. It was an historic moment. Now I could walk to the library all by myself. Thus began my enchantment with literature and in particular, children’s literature.

This endearment to children’s books was fired anew as I had the great joy of reading to my three children and now my grandchildren. As summer softly comes to an end, I think of one of my favorite picture books, Time of Wonder, winner of the 1958 Caldecott Award, written by Robert McCloskey.

If art is meant to evoke emotions, then Time of Wonder is art at a high level. Through text and paintings, McCloskey makes us feel like we are standing on the shore on a foggy morning “on the edge of nowhere”. We see clouds darkening the Camden Hills, the bay spotted with boats, and the happy noise of children diving off rocks into a sparkling sea.

Summer passes. Days grow shorter and shorter. An unusual sky appears over Eggemoggin Reach. Lobstermen study the sky.

“We’re gonna have some weather.”

“It’s a comin’.”

“She’s gonna blow.”

All living things wait for a hurricane to pound the seaside villages. After the storm, children explore the woods and beaches and see a hummingbird buzz overhead. The story winds down as the family begins to pack and leave the Maine Island. “A little bit sad about the place they were leaving, a little glad about the place they were going.”

I do bet that my adult children know the last line of this classic story. We read it every summer. “Where do hummingbirds go in a hurricane?”

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Cricket Song

Of a recent evening I gathered with friends round the campfire, praying, singing, and chatting. It was a pristine evening with the Milky Way smudged across the sky and a half-moon off to the east. Hidden in the grasses, crickets sang of summer ending. 

I thought of a chapter in Charlotte’s Web. E.B. White described the cricket song.

“Summer is over and gone. Over and gone, over and gone. Summer is dying, dying.”

For Charlotte, it meant that her life was coming to an end. E.B. White devoted two pages to the emotions stirred by the crickets. Everyone heard the song. Fern Arable knew that school would start soon. Mrs. Arable sighed softly, lamenting that another summer had gone. The sheep were so upset that they broke a hole in the fence and wandered across the road. A maple tree turned bright red with anxiety.

“How many nights till frost?” sang the crickets.

Now that is a question that hovers in the mind of my neighbors in Maine. I see firewood dumped in door yards in early July. We had three cords of wood delivered on an eighty degree day. Soon we will pull up the cucumber plants and turn over the soil, add compost and let it lay dormant for the winter. I prowl amongst the zucchini plants for remnants of squash bugs. Thankfully, I say good riddance to them all.

A cricket song reminds us of a clock ticking, of our lives someday dwindling to a close. Now I look forward to the blaze of colors in our maple trees. Autumn leaves proclaim the glory of God, just like the crickets.

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Lost on a Mountain in Maine

On this day, July 25,2024, we commemorate an important day in Maine history. Eighty-five years ago today, an emaciated twelve-year-old boy named Donn Fendler stumbled out of the Maine woods after surviving nine days alone on Mt. Katahdin. He was covered with insect bites, scratches, and lost one of his toes. His disappearance sparked a massive search and rescue effort in which family, friends, forest rangers, bloodhounds, airplanes, townspeople, and the National Guard searched relentlessly for the boy. Many thought he was dead. The incredible tale of survival is  told in his book Lost on a Mountain in Maine.

The story began on July 16th when Donn hiked up Mt. Katahdin with a friend and his family. Suddenly, a heavy cloud covered the peak and Donn became disoriented. He stumbled down the north side of the rugged mountain to a wild trail overgrown with prickle bush and covered with sharp rocks. 

How did Donn survive this excruciating ordeal? He endured severe pain, despair, and even hallucinations due to dehydration and malnourishment…and he was alone. Here is what he had to say.

Now and then terrible, dark feelings rushed up into my head…they were always dark and empty…something that made my heart pound and my legs want to run.

On the day that he was rescued, he was so weak that it felt like all the bones had been removed from his legs. Fendler tells how he tripped over a root and fell flat on his face, unable to move.

I just lay there and waited. Suddenly, I felt something like strong, gentle hands and I felt myself lifted slowly until I was on my knees…and they were lifting and lifting.

Fendler believed it was his guardian angel. At first, he hesitated to speak of this supernatural presence. Here is what he said.

I believe in guardian angels and, on my trip through the woods, one of the things that comforted me and helped me to bring myself out to safety was this feeling that I wasn’t entirely alone.

Fendler often spoke of prayers he said every day on the mountain, prayers from the bottom of his heart. For the rest of his life, Donn had a strong faith in God and a determination to never give up hope, even in the darkest hour.

To Maine school children, Donn’s miraculous survival is a familiar one. For decades, Donn visited Maine schools to tell his inspiring tale of courage and perseverance. His story is included in my book Rescued! True Stories for Catholic Kids. The cover depicts Donn’s encounter with a black bear. Fortunately, the bear did not attack. He ran away, startled by the sudden appearance of a human being in the deserted wilderness.

Donn Fendler died on October 10, 2016, at the age of ninety.

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Penny The Wonder Dog

Darkness was falling on the Michigan community where Penny lived with her family that included three young children. Penny was a nine-month-old dog best described as a mutt of medium size with short hair.

On this fateful day, Penny was let out into the yard for a few minutes before bedtime. A family member opened the door and called her. No response. Time passed as the family continued to call. Still Penny did not come. Reality began to sink in on the parents. Penny was missing.

By this time, all was dark in the neighborhood. It was time to go to bed; the parents prepared for a restless night.

The next morning, father opened the back door. To his surprise, Penny lay on the step, motionless but alive. He examined the young dog and discovered a bullet hole in her shoulder. Quickly, he scooped up the dog and rushed to the veterinarian’s office.

After a careful examination, the doctor delivered the bad news. A bullet had passed through her lungs and had lodged in her heart. Surgery was not an option. At this point, the vet was perplexed. How did the dog even survive? Furthermore, he could not imagine how the dog made it back to the house.

“She should have died instantly,” the doctor stated. “We cannot remove the bullet. Surgery would be too dangerous.”

The prognosis was dire. How could a dog survive with a bullet imbedded in its heart?

No one knew if Penny would recover. The mother (we shall call her Mary) had an idea. She turned to her children with a request.

“Let us all pray for Penny.”

That is what they did. 

Innocent voices lifted to heaven asked God to save their beloved pet. To the amazement of all, Penny survived. Beyond that, Penny lived a long life, dying at the ripe old age of thirteen.

A friend told me this true story recently. Unlike most of her neighbors, they were not able to have an invisible fence for fear that an electric shock would hit the bullet and cause damage, possibly death to Penny.

Mary is firmly convinced that the prayers of her children brought about Penny’s miraculous recovery from what should have been a deadly gunshot wound. One question lingers after all these years. How did Penny get back to the house? She could not walk. Whoever shot her could not have known where she lived. If a neighbor found her, that person would have informed the family.

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to these.” Matthew 19:14.

Many years have passed since Penny died. Mary still shakes her head in amazement. Every now and then she would remind her children about Penny and the power of prayer.

I told this story to my grandchildren, and they reacted with awe. Perhaps it was news to them that their humble prayers reach the ear of God.

Our heavenly Father watches over the tiny sparrow, our families, and even a little dog named Penny.

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The Real Miss Rumphius

An old woman ambled down a dirt road from her cottage on Christmas Cove along the coast of Maine. Hilda Hamlin was her name and she had a secret. It was a secret kept in her pocket. Now on her way back from the post office, she fumbled in her pocket for little treasures brought back from her native England. In one sweep of her hand, she cast lupine seeds to her left then to her right. A quiver of homesickness stirred inside her as she thought of Bristol, England and the life she left behind at age fifteen. Somehow the lupine made her feel at home in this land across the sea. No one had to know about this little hobby.

In early summer, lupine sprouted in her backyard and along roadsides, tall plants with blue, purple, rose and white flowers. Neighbors noticed and scooped up seeds from Lupine stalks to plant in their yards. Soon, Lupine covered the fields in this tranquil village. Hilda became known as the Lupine lady. Years later, Hilda’s story came to the attention of woman who also lived on the Maine coast.

Twenty miles down the road in Damariscotta, Barbara Cooney heard the story of Hilda Hamlin. Seeds of a story grew. Cooney, a renowned writer and illustrator, retreated to her study and began to write. A character formed in her mind. Cooney named her Miss Rumphius, an old woman who traveled the world and settled in a cottage by the sea. Miss Rumphius looked out about the sparkling waters and remembered words told to her as a child. 

“You must do something to make the world more beautiful,” said her uncle.

Miss Rumphius procured lupine seeds and trod the meadows and roadsides planting seeds. Children gathered at her feet and listened to the old woman tell of her long life and her many adventures. They left with lupine seeds in their pockets.

Barbara Cooney’s book, Miss Rumphius became a classic in children’s literature, awarded the prestigious National book award in 1983.

 Hilda Hamlin died before the publication of Miss Rumphius. I think that she would have been surprised that her little secret became known to thousands of young readers around the world, inspiring them to make the world more beautiful.

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Fun in the Garden

             

Watch that woman standing on the farmer’s porch. She pulls on her work jeans that still show patches of garden dirt. She sprays insect repellant on her work boots, arms, and neck. Next comes a mesh insect protection net that loops under her armpits and covers her entire head. With great precision, she dons her work gloves and picks up a   garden fork. She is ready for war. Not just any war. She is ready for jungle warfare. Now comes an all-out attack on tangles of weeds that threaten to take over the garden.

You probably have guessed that I am that woman. One dreary day in March, snow still covered the landscape. Lilac bushes were breaking under the weight of a late snowstorm that dumped a foot of snow. Suddenly, from the depths of my being came a desire, no, a need to rid the ground of weeds and plant a flower garden. Just the thought of brightly colored flowers warmed my heart.

I was transformed from a woman in despair to a woman on a mission. Once the snow disappeared, I discovered that weeds had taken over the hill in front of our house. Virginia Creepers had a sprawling underground network ready to drain all nutrients from the soil. The evil bindweed twined around delicate fruit saplings, choking out all life. I had a deep dislike for ditch lilies that can take over a garden, claiming territories like Napoleon on the march. Ah yes, the world was out of control, but I was eliminating insidious weeds one dig at a time. 

Once the enemy was eliminated (I have taught my grandson that weeds are the enemy), I drove to the local garden store. At the entrance was a rack of paper packets filled with flower seeds, all with enchanting names. I bought with reckless abandon. Triumphant, I carried home Ruby Parfait Celosia, Pacific Beauty Mix Calendula and best of all, Cupcake Cosmos. My husband questioned these purchases.

“Were they on sale?” he asked.

“Nope,” I replied. 

That ended the conversation. He sensed I was on a mission and dropped the subject.

After a few weeks, I began to question my motivations. After all, this was dirty, back-breaking work. It soon became apparent that I was more relaxed after working in the garden. Hope flickered as I dropped flower seeds in a little hole, sprinkled them with soil, and gave them a little pat.

I wondered. Does gardening reduce stress? One scientific test chose thirty gardeners to work the soil for thirty minutes. Cortisol (the stress hormone) was repeatedly measured. In a second test, the gardeners were asked to read a book for 30 minutes and told not to garden. Both reading and gardening reduced cortisol, but decreases were significantly stronger in the gardening group. Researchers concluded “positive moods were fully restored after gardening. These findings provide the first experimental evidence that gardening can promote relief from acute stress.”

What started as a war on weeds, now became a war on stress. I reduced my intake of dire news stories. I increased my prayer time. I spent more time outside listening to bumble bees foraging among the apple blossoms. Earthworms made their silent appearance. I watched them wiggled in the moist topsoil.  Spring bird calls filled the air. Chickadees, sparrows, and goldfinch visited the bird feeder. I sensed the harmony of nature and the hand of God, firmly in control.

I pulled a dandelion out by its roots and paused to reflect on my time in the garden. It is strange to think that digging deeply into the soil should make me feel more connected to God. Scientific tests do not mention the supreme, reasonable Person. He regulates the movement of stars and earthworms, all given through His unfailing love. Therein lies our peace.

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Don’t Worry. Be Happy!

Several weeks ago, I had the pleasure of taking a walk with my two young grandchildren on a warm spring day. It was a leisurely walk in a quiet neighborhood. After the long, dark winter, we in northern New England savor the feel of sun on our faces. No longer do we have to brace ourselves against bitter winds. Even the little ones seemed to sense the spirit of relaxation.

Onward we strolled. Two-year-old Patrick picked up a long branch. He squished the stick into mud and remnants of snowbanks, fascinated by the textures of puddles and wet sand. Curiosity prevailed as he experimented along the roadside.

Mary, only four, scoured the gravel, looking for rocks covered with shiny mica. In her eyes, we were panning for gold. Eagerly, she tucked these treasures in her pocket.

High aloft, a mourning cloak butterfly danced in the sunshine, flitting over our heads.

“It wants to play with us,” I said.

Indeed, that seemed to be the case. Playfully, the winged dancer dove and soared. It was a moment of delight. Further on, Mary made an observation. Keen of eye, she noticed small cracks in the pavement. It was something to ponder. In a calm, matter-of-fact voice she shared her thoughts.

“When I see cracks in the road, it makes me think that the whole world is breaking apart.”

Did she really say what I thought she said? Mary was not frightened by her earth-rattling thought. She was the picture of serenity. And so must I be at peace like my grandchild. Jesus, the Good Shepherd, walks with us, even when it seems, at times, that our world is breaking apart.

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Miraculous II

I am pleased to announce that my seventh book has now been released. Two years in the making, it is an illustrated treasury of ten stories that span the centuries and the world.

In this collection, young readers will read the thrilling stories of Longinus at Golgotha, the vision of Constantine in the battle to save Rome, and four apparitions. From the woods of Wisconsin to the streets of Calcutta, families will read inspiring stories of supernatural events that changed the course of history.

Artist John Folley has created brilliant illustrations filled with details that bring characters to life. I am so grateful that he shares his talent for these books. Pen and ink illustrations require a great deal of time and effort. 

Thanks also to the many families who have bought these books over the last five years. The mission of my writing is to nurture the faith of young people through exciting stories taken from the history of the Catholic Church. It still astounds me that 40,000 of these books have sold in the last five years. Praise God.

Enjoy the stories!

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