Lost And Found
Senator Robert Byrd pauses during his humbling speech as Benjamin Hooks looks on.
Yesterday's death of Benjamin Hooks left me contemplating my brief encounter with the accomplished civil rights leader nearly four years ago. He had been invited to speak at ceremonies commemorating the 100th anniversary of the meeting of the Niagara Movement at Harpers Ferry in 1906. I was there doing research on an historical novel while attending a weeklong educator's conference on the Niagara Movement and the legacy of controversial abolitionist John Brown.
Conceived as a means to secure civil equality for disenfranchised African Americans following the failure of Reconstruction, the very first meeting of the Niagara Movement was scheduled to be held in Buffalo, New York in 1905. When Buffalo hoteliers saw organizer W.E.B. DuBois and other black attendees, they refused to offer accommodations, forcing the group to reconvene across the Canadian border. Harpers Ferry, site of John Brown's raid in 1859, was chosen as the location of the 1906 gathering. Within three years, the Niagara Movement evolved into the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. Dr. Hooks, among many other achievements, served as Executive Director of the NAACP from 1977 to 1992.
Hostel Is A Homophone
The bridge from Sandy Hook to Harpers Ferry...and also from lunacy to sanity.
"Nothing just happens! Nothing just happens!" thundered the evangelizing voice of T.D. Jakes as I gnawed on fried chicken from the comfort of my hotel bed. The congregation shouted its approval of their leader's assertion that there is no such thing as a coincidence. I pondered the idea for a moment, took another swig of cola, and clicked the remote. Now The Andy Griffith Show flickered from the screen. It was an episode I recognized, the classic "Man In A Hurry," in which a stranded big-city motorist finds his patience tested by the leisurely pace of Mayberry as he waits for his car to be repaired.
"Ah, what luck," I enthused before it occurred to me that T. D. Jakes would presumably disagree.
I was determined to squeeze whatever enjoyment I could out of my accommodations, as my room was costing me four times what I had budgeted. Perched high atop Harpers Ferry at the edge of the Catholic cemetery, my lodgings were in every way a far cut above my original reservations. In order to justify the indulgence of attending a five-day educational conference at my own expense (along with opportunities to do further research for my historical novel set in the area), I had intended to stay a little further down the Potomac, just across the river. There at the base of Maryland Heights is the small community of Sandy Hook, where a humble hostel offers shelter to Appalachian Trail hikers, assorted vagabonds, and fiscally prudent educators.
The idea of staying in a hostel held no appeal to me beyond its minimal cost. Multi-bunk barracks and community bath facilities are not what I would consider to be positive amenities. In addition, this establishment was only open in the evening, overnight and morning hours, outside of which the doors were locked. Still, I anticipated a busy week, and what more would I need from my accommodations but a safe bed and a shower? As I was traveling alone, I did not need to consider the comfort of my family. I could handle roughing it for a few days. It might even make the whole endeavor more fun, allowing me to assume the role of the itinerant writer, a rugged intellectual who cares not where he sleeps so long as he may practice his craft.