Two Bridges- Where I Am From, Part One

Dear Gentle Reader,

It is difficult and potentially life changing for me to explore the topic of where I come from.  I know that the interweb is monitored for content related to "the sect" and that content deemed negative can result in unwanted attention.  For that reason I have chosen to not include the names of any people associated with this story, or to name "the sect" outright.  Please understand that my relationship to some members of my immediate family could be effected by the way in which this piece is spread online. Many of you have heard or lived this story in your own life or because we have been BFF's for long enough for me to open up and tell it to you.  It has been 18 years since I got on a Greyhound bus to start a new life and I have been through many different stages in my relationship with the group I am calling The Sect .   I have gone from having season tickets on the bitter bus to who gives a damn and everywhere in between.  In the last couple years I have been slowly learning that my life does not need to be colored by or remotely controlled by a group of people that choose to live very differently than the rest of us.   It's still not easy to write this piece so thanks for reading and for respecting the lives of those involved!
-Marvin

In Ulster County, NY about half way between the Hudson River and the Shawungunk Mountains there are two bridges that cross the Wallkill River.  One is a wooden covered bridge that was built in 1844 and named after a local inn owner. The other is a massive concrete and steel structure that carries millions of cars and trucks a year up the New York State Thruway from The City to places like Albany, Buffalo, and ultimately Canada.  Built sometime in the 1950's the Thruway bridge is almost directly above its beautiful old, one lane predecessor. As a kid I used to climb up on the covered bridge's rounded beams and throw sticks into the river through an opening near the top. And then jump down and running to the other side to see which stick would emerge victorious.  In Junior High I sat on a bucket under the Thruway bridge and fished for blue gill, and as a teen I found my first CD, albeit a scratched, on the road between the bridges (Beastie Boys).  This place was home.

What Is It
Across the road, just southeast from the two bridges there is a driveway and a sign that welcomes you to The Sect.  Nothing is visible from the road accept a wooded road that curves upward as it disappears around a bend.  Were you to take that driveway up that hill you would arrive in a place unlike almost anywhere else on earth.  Hidden from the road, the river and the bridges is the old estate of a Industrial Area mill owner which is now home to some 350 souls.

Imagine you're driving up that hill for the first time to check the place out.  There is a gate folks, you knew there would be didn't you.  The good news is that it's always open during the day but you do have to check in with the guy behind the glass who will direct you to the guest parking. On the way there you will pass a large factory that is the economic engine for life on the hill.  Once you park and are assuredly met by someone to shepherd you through your visit,  you will see that you are in a beautiful little village of grass, gardens and odd looking over-sized houses.  There is the mill owner's old mansion turned office building, a large dining hall and childcare building.  Think of a summer camp with huge cabins and you're not far off.

If you're trying to imagine how that place operates think communism without a lot of corruption. People live in sparse apartments and have assigned jobs that keep the entire collective humming.  No one brings home a paycheck from the work they do.  Everything you need is provided to you, and the challenge is to believe in the system and to keep it going.  Everyday life for the average person on that hill is a simple one; sort of like the Amish on steroids.  Dress is simple, as are the homes and meals (good eats).  They use cars, phones and computers, but own almost no personal property and do not watch television.  If you can make a lifetime commitment to living with no personal freedom in a beautiful place and surrounded by people you love then The Sect is right in your wheel house.

History

It all began on a rundown farm somewhere in Germany during the 1920's. I guess Germany had its own version of the flapper area at about the same time that Jay Gatsby was hanging out on Long Island and feigning after Daisy.  The narrative we heard growing up was that during that time there was a roaring religious movement that brought a group of college kids and their professor leader together to form a commune.  That commune grew, almost died, and then grew again until the 1930's when it was raided one day by the Gestapo because the group wouldn't teach their kids that Hitler was the man.

 As a general rule, groups like this grow during persecution.  The Sect was no exception and added to its numbers even as they bounced around Europe.  Eventually they settled into a rural farm somewhere in England, which is where my dad's British parents said "I do" to each other and a lifetime of  membership.  But once The War started a group of German communists camped out in rural England raised a lot of red flags.  The "story" goes that the only place they could go was landlocked Paraguay, South America. That is where my dad entered this world as The Sect struggled to create a new life in a very different world.  There are a lot of stories we heard about disease, attempted murder and power struggles during those years during and after the war.  Many people left the group during that era because let's face it, living in community with people can be extremely challenging. Also by that point the original big dog had passed, and his son was now in charge (theme alert).

By the time the 1950's rolled around The Sect was sick of living in Paraguay so they packed up and moved to the U.S.  Home became the well worn estate on the hill in New York.  That is where my Mom's side of the family joins the picture. My young idyllic Grandparents left another tree-hugger commune in North Carolina and brought their kids to a new planet: some of them have never left. The person who did leave not long after they had signed on the dotted line was my Grandfather.  As you can imagine, that didn't go well which you can read more about at In search of my Grandfather.

Last week I had two encounters with those bridges in the Hudson Valley.  One was flying across the Thruway bridge in a rented 2015 Cadillac;  my sister behind the wheel doing her best impression of The Real Housewives of New Jersey as we sped north from JFK for my brother's wedding upstate (I have three siblings who did their own version of the Greyhound ride, and two still on the inside).  The second was after the wedding as we wandered back to the airport on back roads and ended up parked right across the street from that driveway up a wooded hill.  We walked across the covered bridge and reminisced about growing up there.  It was then that I realized that the two bridges are a great metaphor for navigating life on and off that hill across the road.  Imagine that the covered bridge is The Sect.  Life there can be sweet in an 1844 kind of way, but it's also incredibly restricted and controlled like crossing the single lane, boxed in old bridge that you probably had to pay a toll for. On the other hand the Thruway bridge can be a good example of the rest of the world in 2015.  It's fast, loud and an easy place to get run over.  But it's going places as well, which is great if you have places to be.  Sure both bridges serve the same purpose of getting you across the river, but that is where the similarities stop.  In reality they are part of completely different worlds. The challenge is to navigate that space in between the two bridges, especially if you're an 18 year old kid that decides that a life time commitment to life on the covered bridge is not for you.

Next time on Two Bridges  Is it a cult? Why do people stay? And more about what life is like on the inside.


UPDATE 6/29/15

Thanks for all your support for this blog!  Due to my sisters upcoming marriage in August that members of my family still in The Sect are invited to, I will not be posting part two of this piece until after that time.  Thanks for your patience!

When Dying Just Doesn't Work Out

“With my last breath, I’ll exhale my love for you. I hope it’s a cold day, so you can see what you meant  to me.
”  - Jarod Kintz

My Grandmother is dying; at least she's working on it,  but with mixed results at this point.  Three years ago when fall rolled around I remember my dad telling me that she had congestive heart failure and it didn't look like she would make it through the winter.  Not only did she make it through that winter but the winter after that as well.  She was ninety five then and still about as active as  someone that age with two bad wheels could be. But by the time this past fall painted the Catskill Mountains outside her windows orange, she was done.  She stopped eating and wouldn't get out of bed. She was at peace and it was time to go home.  So the family was summoned to say our last goodbyes.  I went to see her and wrote the following at the time...

 It's New York, it's December, and I am here to say my last goodbye to my dying grandmother, yes that Grandmother. She is still part of the commune at 95 and no longer gets out of bed. Instead she holds my hand as we watch the birds compete with squirrels for survival outside her window on a bitter Catskill Mountain morning... Good byes like this are really hard! 

She was ready to go and making sure we all new it.  But the months passed and she got stronger seemingly each week until April when she turned 96 and at least the rest of us celebrated. Then the roller coaster crested its track once more and she began to slip away.  My brother took his fiance to meet her for the first and last time and she told him she was glad they came when they did because she didn't want to wait around. This time is really going to be it I thought as I waited day after day for that phone call that never came.

By now I am sure you know what comes next. Yep you guessed it, she has rebounded again.  At this point I don't blame you if you don't believe my tale, I hardly do myself.  In less than two weeks my brother will wed his lovely bride on a farm just outside Utica, NY.  Needless to say Grandma will not be attending the wedding. However those of us from out of town now hope to do something that seemed impossible only two weeks ago;  see her one more time.

Mary Taylor was born in 1919 in southern New Jersey. Almost immediately her mother began to call her "Pepper" because of her feisty nature.  Pepper eventually became "Grandma Pep" when I came along and has stuck. Make no mistake, this is not her obituary.  She is very much alive, much to her chagrin. I will admit that writing about my Grandmother wanting to die is slightly uncomfortable. Its not a weird Dr. Kevorkian thing for her; she is very old and broken down and she believes that a better place is waiting for her in the next life. I am pretty sure if we all make it to 96 and find ourselves as beat up as she is and we are at peace with the lives we've lived that we would be ready to go.  The only thing I can come up with to explain why she keeps bouncing back from the grave over and over in spite of how much she wants to pass is that feisty "Pepper" nature.  She has always been as active as her bad knees would let her.  She played softball into her 80's, and I personally went sledding with her in her 90's.  It's as if her body wants to stick around for one more adventure.

I've been to the spot that will be her final resting place.  On a hill surrounded by her beloved Catskills with a view of a mountain lake and hand carved wooden gates it is without a doubt one of the most beautiful cemetery's I have ever seen.  It will be a lovely place to go and remember her for years to come. Honestly I am torn about this dying thing.  When you love someone you want them around as much as possible.  But if they are suffering or its seemingly their time as the signs point to with her, then you have to set your want to's aside and wish for peace for her.  But then again if she could hold on for two more weeks so we could see her again, that would be great.  Oh crap, there I go being selfish again.

"A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist" - Stewart Alsop