And there was also some running through the Inn's hallways; a hundred Young Friends, small kids through teens, were there, holding their own annual meeting.

Friends have been gathering every summer at Silver Bay for about 60 years; some who first attended as youngsters are now moving around with canes and walkers. But the whole spectrum of age is still represented, including, as I say, lots of delightful kids.

Some fine insights rose from of the silent worship and small workshops. One idea, with very broad implications, I'll share with you in a future column. For now, however, I have two lesser points to pass on. The first has to do with sneezes. The other concerns a near-mishap that could have meant jail for me, or maybe a long term locked up someplace with a beige dayroom and grated windows. More about that next week.

As to sneezing: The subject arose over breakfast one morning. All 600 Friends had moved through the buffet lines, and I was sitting with seven of them, none of whom I knew. But talk came easily to all of us, and even more so when one of us, a woman, suddenly had to sneeze.

It was her approach to the sneeze, and her follow-though, that startled the group. In the middle of the lively talk, the woman slipped out a handkerchief, raised it to her face-and pinched her nostrils. Her sneezes, three of them, were thus stifled, expressed only by a jerk of her head and shoulders. No sound, mind you! Each sneeze was like a charge detonated far underground, with only a slight heave of earth to signal it.

When she realized that she'd stopped conversation, the woman smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry," she said. "I've always sneezed like that." I guess the same unasked question was on every face around the table. "Yes, but why?"

Perhaps, raised in a quiet Quaker family, the woman had grown up thinking that a full-blown sneeze was somehow impolite, uncontrolled, too assertive. It called too much attention to oneself.

If that was the cause, she surely wasn't reflecting the common Friends approach. I paid close heed to sneezes for the rest of the week. Most of the sneezing Quakers, though careful to cover their mouths, were quite willing to let 'er rip, using their handkerchiefs to muffle the decibels.

And good for them, I say. A good sneeze begets an elemental sense of satisfaction. The way a sneeze builds, hangs fire, then explodes brings on a bona fide catharsis as endorphins flood our brains. What an innocent pleasure! How in keeping with Quaker delight in simple things, simple ways.

In his zest for a good sneeze, my Grandpa Atwell would have made a good Quaker - except that in sneezing, he scorned moderation. Grandpa's sneeze was loud, violent, and rarely involved a handkerchief.

He sneezed like a howitzer going off. It's a wonder he didn't blow glass out of windows, stun birds in nearby trees.

Grandpa vocalized his sneezes. His wasn't a restrained "ah-choo," but a full-throated, phlegmy roar - "A-RAUGH!" One expected the sound to cut a wake across the Chesapeake, echo off distant hills. In their long marriage, how my Grandma Atwell, with her delicate sensibilities, must have suffered from that sneeze. (Come to think of it, I can't remember seeing Grandma sneeze - ever.)

Looking back, I can see that Grandpa Atwell's sneeze was of a piece with his whole personality. A short, bandy-legged man, he always strove to project himself as larger than life - and he succeeded at it. The sneeze played its part, as most certainly did his profanity. For the latter he had a true gift, sometimes raising rough talk to the level of poetry. I remember hearing him once describe a man as "so LOW he'd have to stand on a BRICK to kiss a duck's BUTT!" Except he didn't say "butt."

Of course, poor Grandma was martyred by his salty language, too. I can see her anguished expression to this day, and hear her plaintive, "Sam, not in front of the boy!" The boy, in fact, loved it, as did his brother. We worshiped the old man precisely for his anarchic zest. For his part, I believe Grandpa thought that his profanity, and indeed perhaps his sneeze, were are part of training us up to be men. And it had its effect. To this day, if I'm working alone out in the barn or the woods, I'll sometimes give free reign to a roaring sneeze, just to honor the old man's memory.

But back to the Quakers at breakfast. After the kind lady got us started, we moved on to ways of squelching sneezes. On man said that slowly reciting "potato, potato, potato" will do the job; that sounds doubtful to me. Another stressed pressing one's index finger under the nose, across the moustache zone. (I've seen Laurel and Hardy do that in old films, and it seemed to work for them.)

Next we talked about saying, "God bless you!" after someone's sneeze. All had read that the practice dates back to the Middle Ages and the Black Plague, when sudden sneezing was a first symptom of contagion. Hence a fervent and uneasy "God bless you!" immediately after an outburst was both prayer and prophylactic.

But what emerged from all the Quakers at the table (except the one lady) was agreement that a sneeze should be seen as a gift. It releases tension, clears the head, brings a sense of well-being. I buy that readily. Sounds like a gift to me.

As I say, more profound talk than that took place at Silver Bay. But I'm glad of a new appreciation for sneezes. And for my good old grandpa, gone now almost sixty years. Whatever his shortcomings, Sam Atwell was a man very much alive. To know that, you only had to hear him sneeze.

Jim Atwell lives in and views life from Fly Creek. Learn about his book at JimAtwell.com.