Phoebe and I are getting married on July 21st 2018 at the First United Methodist Church in Susquehanna, PA. Hopefully, all or most of our families will be in attendance. Phoebe grew up in Philadelphia. I grew up in upstate NY. I moved to Los Angeles in 1984. Phoebe moved to Los Angeles in 1991. Both of us have spent more time in California than in our home states. Surprisingly, a few of our closest friends from California are making the trek to PA to be with us on this special occasion and we couldn’t be more grateful. As most of you know, I’m not an overly religious man, and I wouldn’t consider Phoebe to be a religious woman. Naturally, one of the first questions I hear is, why have you decided to be married in a Methodist Church in Susquehanna? I’ll do my best to explain. Susquehanna is sort of a mid-way point between where our families reside, but there’s more to it than that. It’s a very special place to me. The Starrucca Viaduct overlooks the entire valley. That alone, is reason enough to go there. It was built in 1848 of ashlar bluestone. At the time of its creation, it was the largest stone viaduct in the United States. It’s really something to see (click on our Photos page to see what I'm talking about). Susquehanna is an old railroad town with all the faded trimmings. Many years ago, it was a major hub. Today, most of that industry is gone. Sets of tracks still run along the river. A huge, rusty water tower and brick depot with busted windows remain, but the town is a shadow of its former self, not exactly a modern-day ghost town, but its previous glory is now decades past.

My mother and father are from Susquehanna. My grandfather became a member of the First United Methodist Church of Susquehanna in approximately 1925. He and Grandma were active members of that congregation for most of their lives. Julia Drake (my 100-year-old grandmother) has cooked many a large meal in the ovens within its basement. She still lives on Wilson Avenue in Oakland, just across the river. Unfortunately, Durland Drake (my grandfather, my mother’s father) passed away in 2010. He was the most honest, hard-working man I’ve ever known. My grandparents mean the world to me, and as a young boy I spent a lot of time with them in Susquehanna. Quite often, we’d visit them on the weekends, and on most of those trips I’d get all dressed up and go to church with them, and then to Sunday school afterwards. Today, I’m a fairly mellow guy. But as a child, I had a considerable amount of energy. I can remember sitting in the wooden pews covered with olive/gold fabric and what seemed to me at the time to be the thinnest amount of padding. The sermon took about eighteen hours, and no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t get comfortable. So, I fidgeted. And, I made too much noise. Ladies in fancy dresses with their hair wrapped around and around, piled to the moon, would turn around and shush me. They’d give me the evil eye and I’d sit up straight and be quiet for a minute. I’d scootch up and look over their shoulders. Is the Pastor still talking? Yep, jeez, sounds like he’s just getting started too. I’d nudge the old man sitting next to me and whisper, “What time is it?” He’d tell me, but his response was usually followed with a shush, also.

Now, my uncle Bradley was the first rock star I ever saw. He played the organ for the church services, and let me tell you, he could make that thing sing. It bellowed at his command. His fingers would run over the keys, filling the church with (no pun intended) the most heavenly music I’d ever heard. I’m not sure how we all knew, but when the time came for him to play and for us to sing, we’d all stand right up and let it rip. To the side of where the Pastor stood (yeah, he’s still talking) there was a fancy wooden plaque that had the page numbers listed in sequence for us to turn our hymnals to so we’d know what to sing. Most of the people knew the melody. I didn’t. But I did what I’ve often done in this life, I just sort of faked it and followed along. I’ll tell you right now, though, more than a couple of those old ladies didn’t know the melody either. They thought they did, but it sounded more like a cat yodeling. They were faking it too. They were faking it pretty loudly, though. You can’t un-hear stuff. It’s still with me. Now, about fifteen hours into the sermon, my fidgeting would get to what could only be called a fever pitch. Man, it was like there were ants in my pants. At this point, my mom would get so disgusted with me that she’d send me over to sit with Mr. and Mrs. Hand. But see, the trick was to always sit next to Mr. Hand. Who’s Mr. Hand you ask? Well, I’m not quite sure exactly, a friend of my Grandpa’s. Anyway, I’d go sit with him, and it always seemed like he was expecting me. He’d scootch over and make room, and I’d park it and try to look over the ladies’ mile-high hairdo and see if the Pastor seemed to be winding down or not. Not even, he was still going like a house afire. This guy had a lot to say. Every darn Sunday. Like, he must not have spoken at all during the week and just saved it all up for us.

The relocation would calm me down for a minute, but pretty soon the fidgeting would return. Mr. Hand would reach in his pocket and pull out a roll of lifesavers. Usually they were the multi-colored fruit flavors, sometimes butterscotch or peppermint. He’d pass them over and say, “Take one.” As it turns out, lifesavers not only taste great, but they have some sort of anti-fidgety medicine in them. It only lasts a while though. Then Mr. Hand would pass the roll over to me again for a second dose. Eventually, we all got smart and decided to bypass the initial fidgeting phase. When we got to church, Mom would just send me to sit with Mr. Hand right away. We’d pass that roll of lifesavers back and forth, stand up and sing, listen for a while, then stand up and sing again. We did this for about twenty-two hours every Sunday. I’m not sure how many rolls we burned through, but the supply never ran out. Then the teenage years arrived, and church went by the wayside. I fell in love with playing guitar and riding motorbikes. Basketball, girls, and rock and roll became my main interests. I moved to California and haven’t stepped foot in that church for a very long time now. A few years ago, I was visiting with my grandmother and I took her out to dinner at a restaurant. On the way home, as we were passing through Great Bend, PA, she mentioned that Mr. Hand lived in an apartment building just up the street. She said he was very old (which is a statement coming from her) and was in failing health. I made a quick pit stop at the convenience store, then drove up to his building. I walked Grandma to the door and gave it a good knock. An old man–I couldn’t even describe what he looked like from memory, but I’d recognize him anywhere–came to the door. “Julia, how nice to see you. Please come in,” he said. We entered his apartment. “And who is this young fellow with you?” he asked. “Bonnie’s boy. This is Todd,” Grandma replied.

His face lit up as he looked me up and down. “Really?” he asked. “You’re so tall now.” I shook his hand, and said, “Mr. Hand, It’s very nice to see you again. I have a little something for you.” I reached into my pocket and passed him enough rolls to replenish his supply. As I put them into the palms of his weathered hands, the mist in his eyes left me with no doubt that he remembered. The time I spent at the First Methodist Church in Susquehanna is very important to me. Even though, for the life of me, I can’t remember much of it now. It’s where I come from. It’s where my family comes from. It’s one of the only places in this world that I’ve truly felt completely safe. I haven’t walked through its doors in years, but I can tell you where the rack is that holds the new editions of The Upper Room. In my mind’s eye, I can see all of it very clearly. I know what it smells like, much like walking into Grandma’s house, it smells old and clean and good. As we walk through life, if we’re lucky, a few places define themselves as home. This church is one of those places for me. I’m an incredibly lucky fellow to be marrying Phoebe. It’s only more special to be doing so in a place that holds such dear memories for me and has meant so much to my family over the years. We’re hoping you can be there with us. Todd Lincoln Richards