Row, Row, Row Your Boat

Row, row, row your boat
Now the harvest's done
Merrily, picnicky, frollically, peacefully
We can have some fun.

Moo, moo, eat your fill
While the field is green.
Merrily, Daisy and Clara-Bell
Make some milk and cream.

Mow, mow, mow the field
Into bales of golden brown,
Merrily, wearily, but still cheerily
Take them to the barn.

Rain, rain, water the field
The air's now fresh and clean
Merrily making lotsa puddles,
Every small boy's dream.

Shine, shine heavenly sun
Spring is in the air
Make the rows of swaying corn
Smile from ear to ear.

Variations by Lionel Hartley

Chronicles in the Life of Peter Blank, Part 8

Episode 8: The First Day In A New Land.
It was Peter's first day in the new land. With a seven-cubic-foot cabin trunk and an airline travel bag, Peter struggled from an airport shuttle 'bus onto the footpath outside the City Central Railway Station. Having been warned of the danger of leaving luggage unattended in the big city, he searched in vain for a luggage trolley. With difficulty, he then manually hauled the trunk to the luggage depot to have it put on the train for him. He was, however, told that "due to an industrial dispute" luggage would only be accepted at a named station elsewhere in the city -- a station he would have to "go to anyway to change trains" so as to get to his chosen destination. He was also told that not only were there no luggage trolleys or porters, but that the only way to the underground platform was on an escalator. The stairs were closed for re-tiling and there were no elevators.
With a great expenditure of breath and perspiration, Peter managed to get the trunk to the top of the escalator -- a clanking mechanical staircase which hurried passengers down into the bowels of the railway station. The wide trunk only just fitted between the stationary sides of the moving staircase and they descended while Peter stood on the step above, balancing the trunk with one hand while holding his travel bag with the other. As an herd of hurrying commuters pressed behind him, Peter was to learn something he had not even imagined. The walls of this staircase tapered together as they neared the bottom. This had the unfortunate effect of wedging the cabin trunk in mid-air. The cabin trunk stopped. Peter did not. In fact, the unrelenting escalator dragged him under the wedged cabin trunk, and it was there that he stopped! Of course, the escalator continued to move, each step clouting his head and piling angry commuters upon him and the cabin trunk. Somehow, someone found a switch to stop the mechanical monster. And, with some difficulty and an abundance of Australian colloquialisms, Peter was extracted, carried, cursed, and bundled onto a waiting train in an almost singular movement.
The commuter train, in contrast to the escalator, was amazingly free of passengers -- Peter guessed that most had sought safety from him and his trunk in other carriages.
Knowing he was to leave the train after only a few stops, he waited with his trunk, just inside the door, rather than try to find a seat large enough for himself and his travelling companion. This would have been a good idea if, at the next station, a convoy of bicyclists, each with an antler-handled velocipede, had not tried to squeeze into the space he occupied.
The air was filled with phrases in the Australian vernacular -- words of unknown meaning yet unmistakable intent.
Finally the troublesome trunk, which seemed to grow heavier and larger by the hour, was lodged at the luggage depot at the named station. Peter could now relax while an electric train sped him to the seaside town, which marked the end of the electric line and the half-way point in his rail journey.
Upon arriving, he made his way to the adjacent platform to await the diesel train to take him the next leg of his journey. It seemed he was the only one travelling further north as everyone else had disappeared into the town. He checked his timetable again, and patiently sat alone on the platform to wait.
Presently, an elderly couple asked his reason for waiting. His response prompted them to advise him that the industrial dispute he had been frustrated with in the City affected all trains other than the electric commuter trains. There would be no trains further north that day. However, before he had time to become anxious, they asked him the location of his final destination. He had hardly uttered the name of the tiny village when they exclaimed that they would be going by car through that very village -- and would he care to travel with them?
That very day he arrived at his destination, travel-bag in hand, thanking God for His mysterious intervention.
The following week he had to return to the City to locate a lost cabin trunk and to have it put on the correct train, but by then the lessons learned were applied. However, Peter is quick to acknowledge that his life lesson is not finished yet.


-- Lionel Hartley, Not Finished Yet -- Chronicles in the Life of Peter Blank
"This serial saga, although novel, is not a novel. It is merely a series of true-life episodes highlighting the extraordinary working of an extraordinary God in a very ordinary life. Each episode contained a lesson for Peter Blank, a lesson we can all learn, from a lesson-book life that is not finished yet."
As first appeared in FreEzine Magazine July 2000 ff

Chronicles in the Life of Peter Blank, Part 7

Episode 7: Peter Changes Religion.
Peter (24 years) had been attending (and wonderfully enjoying) the Anglican Church -- High Church of England -- for most all of his life. He had been a chorister (first a boy soprano and later a tenor/baritone) for 16 years and was involved with youth and men's social groups, the Religious Drama Society, was a Server at the altar, a Sides-man at lesser services and occasionally a Deacon at High Mass. His life revolved around the church with services every day, three and sometimes four times on Sundays and feast days, and he cluttered his busy life with numerous committees, clubs, societies and other involvements in between. But it seemed that one thing lacked.
He knew and could recite his Catechism, the Chorister's Handbook, all 150 metrical psalms, the Mass and other services from the Book of Common Prayer, and the few selections from the Holy Bible which appeared within the pages of the prayer book. Peter measured time by the feasts of the Saints from one Michaelmas to another and apparently lamented a feria (non-feastday) in between. And yet something was missing.
He knew the names of and the reason for each item of vestment the priest wore and the associated prayers relative to the adorning of each garment. But still he felt an unexplained hollowness.
He had familiarised himself with the reason behind each colour chosen to adorn the altar in relation to each feast day -- both major and minor, yet still an emptiness tugged within.
To the ultimate frustration of his Latin master, he probed the ecclesiastical aspect of Latin in almost every language lesson in his upper primary school years. He attended music camps for choirboys and men, took to music lessons with almost unparalleled enthusiasm and delved deeply into an extensive study of church music from Asaph to Plainsong -- from J S Bach to Martin Shaw, and through to the contemporary. He loved his church -- its fellowship, friendship, companionship, mate-ship, and worship. And yet...?
He endeavoured to be the white sheep of his family, with a prayer journal to make a Pope proud, an history of good deeds to outshine every other Boy Scout, and a conceited abstinence from the defilements of swearing, immorality, tobacco and alcohol. However he lacked a certainty of salvation and so, in consequence, he became such a "goody-goody" that he frustrated everybody -- the priest in the confessional, the fast-shrinking circle of companions within his peers, himself for his ever-regular and oft-repeated failings, his rapid-dwindling cluster of adult friends and his parents who sought for an ulterior motive lurking within his behaviour.
Finally, one day, an observant young lady commented on his seeming religious indifference despite a pretence of Christianity. He replied to her that his church going had been filled with busyness, business and emptiness - a strange admix of being absent yet occupied, of being involved, revolved, interested yet bored, held back yet thrust forward, and challenged yet letharged.
To his astonishment he found himself verbalising his uncertainties. She invited him to attend her church some day but he was quick to retort that his Sundays were summarily occupied. Undaunted, she saw this as no obstacle and responded without hesitation that her church meets on Saturday. Assuming she meant that her church ALSO met on Saturday (in addition to Sunday, Monday, etc.) he asked for it's location.
Saturday found him seated in the pew of a strangely familiar and comfortable worship environment. In some mysterious way he didn't notice the absence of a colourfully decorated altar, the absence of ecclesiastical vestments, incense, candles, crucifixes, nor the bells and smells. He did notice the unfamiliar hymns, but as the book-rest on the pew had provided him with a music edition of the hymnal -- with the practiced chorister's skill in "sight-reading" music -- he joined in the hymn singing with gusto (so much so that the organist caught his eye more than once during the service). All too soon the service finished and the organist hurried to greet him and ask the seemingly mandatory, "Where are you from?" To the revealed surprise of the organist, an Anglican church was cited rather than an Adventist one, and to Peter's amazement, the organist replied with an invitation for the wide-eyed visitor to don chorister's robes and join the choir for the Divine Service which was to follow. Such astonishment on both sides allows for no hesitation, and the unfamiliarity of the order of service was laid to rest, as he became absorbed in the singing, the Bible-based preaching and apparent sincerity of the believers.
The shame of what happened next could only be absorbed in the reflective light of the baptism which followed a few weeks later. To the utter frustration of the spouse and daughter waiting in the car, the organist and Peter retired to a side room and spent the entire afternoon seeking biblical answers to a barrage of questions about these strange people who "seem to take this Saturday business very seriously".
Fortunately, the organist's wife saved the day by curving a nose around the corner of the door jam and inviting the absorbed pair to continue their animated conversation in her lounge-room following the refreshment afforded by an evening meal.
The invitation was welcomingly accepted, however temperance at the table was wasted as another form of intemperance eked the postprandile study into the wee small hours of the morning. Finally, in reluctance, with much more to learn, Peter returned home, his head spinning and his heart eager to find out more.
A midweek Bible study group, personal visits by the Pastor, and the blessings of subsequent Sabbaths meant that Peter, as he came to a knowledge of further things biblical, was compelled to make some hard decisions. For many weeks he was quite able to worship on Sabbath in addition to Sunday, was able and willing to pay tithe to two churches, was content to be a Sabbath-day vegetarian, was even prepared to be baptised by immersion -- but to continue to be fully involved in the Church of England with the tuggings of SDA membership at the sleeve of his conscience, he was finally resigned to the fact that he had to choose one or the other. The Anglican Church had the strong lure of security, comfort, predictability, and the music he had grown to love over the years. The Adventist Church offered him the opportunity to be able to learn to get to know, love and share God personally and to worship Him in His way (these two factors (Peter would later realise) summed up the totality of Adventist doctrine).
Peter finally broke his religious bonds with the church of his youth and, although the social ties remain until this day, the lesson for Peter is not finished yet.


-- Lionel Hartley, Not Finished Yet -- Chronicles in the Life of Peter Blank
"This serial saga, although novel, is not a novel. It is merely a series of true-life episodes highlighting the extraordinary working of an extraordinary God in a very ordinary life. Each episode contained a lesson for Peter Blank, a lesson we can all learn, from a lesson-book life that is not finished yet."
As first appeared in FreEzine Magazine July 2000 ff

In God's House

In God's House:
Some go to church to take a walk,
Some go there to laugh and talk.
Some go there to meet their friends,
Some go there their time to spend.
Some through habit go there weekly,
Others go more often, seeking variety.
Some go there to hear the preaching,
Some go there to question the teaching.
Some go there to meet each other,
Some go there a fault to cover.
Some go to church to court a lover,
Others go to chide a brother.
Some go there to strike a bargain,
Some go there to seek for pardon.
Some go there to take their children,
Some go there to escape their children!
Some go there 'cause they feel proud,
Some go there to sing out loud.
Some go there to rest from labour,
Some go just to impress a neighbour.
Some go there to doze and nod,
The wise go there to worship God!

--In part by Spurgeon (expanded by Lionel Hartley 1998)

A juvenile's poem for Mothers Day

Deer mum,
M is for the million things you dun for me
U is for your understanding love
D is for the deeds for what you dayly praise me
D is for the dum things you forgive
E is for ever (thats how long i will love you(
R is for remembring mudders day which I dun two
Put them all to getha they spell MUDDER
(I think thats how its spelled(

Written by Lionel Hartley, aged 9
(Found on a card in his late father's diary of that year. Grammar and spelling as written!)

Chronicles in the Life of Peter Blank, Part 6

Episode 6: Peter's Teeth Change
Peter (c20 years) had set up an hobby business, making 16mm. audition movies for budding actors, actresses and musicians. With cameras and tripods, and numerous items of lighting and sound equipment to be lugged around, he desired to build a custom-made trailer or caravan to make movie-making on location easier. He purchased an old Fordson truck and, with the help of an elder brother, proceeded to convert it into a caravan/workshop. The engine and gearbox were sold to a scrap-metal merchant, and an engineering friend designed an automatic steering mechanism using two motorcycle shock-absorbers to replace the steering wheel. A solid draw bar was fashioned from steel and, although rigid enough to steer the vehicle in motion, hinged up against front of the vehicle when it was not being towed. Unconcerned about the weight of their new creation (Peter had an old two-ton Humber Super-snipe Limousine to tow it) the two brothers set about welding steel panels where the radiator grill used to be, bolting new flooring where the truck driver once sat, and installing an assortment of shelving, cupboards, kitchen equipment and bedding in the body of the van. The creation was finished with several coats of paint before obtaining the mandatory road-worthy registration.
The vehicle proved itself to be practical and Peter reaped considerable benefit from it. However, one memorable Friday it bit back. Almost two ton of van and contents was often difficult to manoeuvre unless it was attached to a vehicle and on this occasion, as they were only a few metres apart, instead of backing the limo to the van, Peter decided to pull the van towards the limo. But the van was measure heavier than puny Peter anticipated. With the dramatic grunt of a circus strongman straining against a football team in a tug-of-war, Peter pulled on the draw-bar with all his (petty) might. The van remained stationary; Peter moved. His feet slid on the roadway and he disappeared under the van.
He would have continued completely out of sight if (fortunately?) the draw-bar hadn't stopped him suddenly! It met him in the teeth and in one stunning milli-second, the heavy steel fist impacted all his front teeth up into his face, pushing his cheeks and nose against his eyes. In piercing agony and blurry vision he cautiously but quickly drove to the local hospital. There he was given injections to dull the pain and halt the bleeding -- and escorted home to await surgery two days later "while the swelling subsides"!
Peter has little recall of those two days, save that they ended on Sunday afternoon in the surgery of his regular dentist. This skillful artisan, with his patient under a general anaesthetic, extracted what remained of Peter's upper teeth and reshaped his face. Using X-rays from a previous dental consultation, he fashioned an upper denture, cleverly reproducing even a chipped front tooth for realism. Peter left the surgery that day with the denture in situ, and his first look in a mirror welled up within him a gratitude to God, for the miraculous restoration. However, the lesson for Peter is not finished yet.
-- Lionel Hartley PhD, "Not Finished Yet"
Chronicles in the Life of Peter Blank
"This serial saga, although novel, is not a novel. It is merely a series of true-life episodes highlighting the extraordinary working of an extraordinary God in a very ordinary life. Each episode contained a lesson for Peter Blank, a lesson we can all learn, from a lesson-book life that is not finished yet."


-- Lionel Hartley, Not Finished Yet -- Chronicles in the Life of Peter Blank
"This serial saga, although novel, is not a novel. It is merely a series of true-life episodes highlighting the extraordinary working of an extraordinary God in a very ordinary life. Each episode contained a lesson for Peter Blank, a lesson we can all learn, from a lesson-book life that is not finished yet."
As first appeared in FreEzine Magazine July 2000 ff

Chronicles in the Life of Peter Blank, Part 5

Episode 5. Peter Goes To Jail
One day, quite unexpectedly, two burly gentlemen from the local constabulary confronted Peter (16 years) at his place of work. It seems that he was being charged with the theft of some equipment from a church in a nearby neighbourhood as someone fitting his physical description had been seen there late at night. The evidence was watertight, he was to be detained overnight and would face the mere formality of a trial the next day. Without the opportunity to seek for support, he was bundled into a police van and driven to a police station at an unknown location. No need for interrogation -- they had all the evidence they needed -- he would now learn first-hand what novels alone had taught him. Fingerprinted, photographed and empty-pocketed, stripped of necktie and shoes -- even the leather buttons were removed from his Harris tweed suit-coat -- before he was lead into a concrete-walled cell scarcely larger than the mattress-covered iron bunk that was cemented to the wall within. Completely devoid of windows, save a tiny grilled opening in the door, the room carried the heavy weight of dank musty air. The room was much taller than it was wide, and high in the centre of the ceiling a solitary light globe behind a wire mesh glared mockingly at the frightened form below. The putrid stale smell of the sweat and urine of previous occupants added a unnecessary melancholy to the already terrifying circumstance. Why a bed was provided was a mystery as sleep was as elusive as the reason for this sudden incarceration. Hope of an exoneration also was evasive as his imagination filled with episodes from the recently read "Foxe's Book of Martyrs". The night passed as slowly as a knee-climb on Pilate's Staircase in a thunderstorm.
Morning was announced, not by the entrance of the sun (as this room had seen none) but by the noisy arrival of a heavily guarded tin plate of some grey lumpy matter. This strange grey mound supported an equally grey spoon, which stood to attention like a solitary tree on a hilltop. One of the guards emitted some profound statement about the grey mound being porridge and that they would wait while he ate it. Peter had no stomach for such generosity despite the fact he had not eaten since the middle of the previous day and simply shook his hands in a gesture to suggest that they guard their valuable porridge somewhere else.
With no tool for measuring time, the eternity was punctured when the door swung wide and a pair of voices called for "Hey You" to follow "NOW!" Along long corridors and then into the back of a van the stocking-footed Peter padded. The drive to the courthouse was immeasurable brief compared with the long lone wait in an anteroom at the courthouse.
Then late in the afternoon, hunger having been and now long since forgotten, unwashed, unshaven, wearing a button-less tweed suit and minus a necktie and footwear, eyes red with too much anxiety and not enough rest -- just when Peter felt in no presentable state to be on trial -- an announcement was made to the effect that it was his turn "in the dock". How could a young man, innocent of the alleged crime, feel so guilty, so criminal, so miserably abandoned? The newspapers had already carried the story of his "crime" yet he knew that not. His employer had told all the staff at the office, and reports with embellishment and exaggeration had filtered through the town, but he knew not that either. He knew only that he felt the humiliation and shame of exposure as if he were on public display naked.
With an unreasonable shame in the eyes, which looked only down, with the smell of furniture polish to the nose and the buzz of unfamiliar jargon to the ears, his bewildering few moments in the courtroom told him nothing.
He was, it seemed, just as quickly jostled into another anteroom, there to wait under the heavy cloud of ignorance and anxiety.
It was there in that half-panelled leather-lounged room that matters took a decided turn when he was finally informed what was happening, what had happened, and what would happen. With overwhelming relief and unbelief, he listened as it was revealed how the real crime perpetrator had confessed and that he would receive, in due course, not only his necktie, coat buttons and shoes, but also an official letter of vindication and apology.
These he did receive, but the scars of incarceration and the unexplained feeling of needless guilt remained and so the lesson for Peter is not finished yet.


-- Lionel Hartley, Not Finished Yet -- Chronicles in the Life of Peter Blank
"This serial saga, although novel, is not a novel. It is merely a series of true-life episodes highlighting the extraordinary working of an extraordinary God in a very ordinary life. Each episode contained a lesson for Peter Blank, a lesson we can all learn, from a lesson-book life that is not finished yet."
As first appeared in FreEzine Magazine July 2000 ff