My husband’s character was one of helping, of giving, thus serving as a pastor thrust him into the best place to function in that capacity. This small church was deep in the country, miles from a store or even a gas station. The houses were far apart down the gravel road with crops of different varieties on either side. Ed left for work at 6 AM and returned home at 6 PM. He drove 30 miles each way.
I had become aware that he would go out of his way to be of help to those with whom he came into contact. For example, he always stopped if he passed someone with a flat or car trouble. One evening he arrived home with two young men. They had finished their time in military and were thumbing their way home to Tennessee. I had supper ready and they sit down to eat. Ed told me to drive down to my nearest neighbor for a visit while the two young men bathed. That would be in a galvanized tub he purchased for us when we moved there. Our three little boys were already sleeping for the night.
I drove the mile or so to Mrs. Herrings, and drove over a small bridge that spanned the narrow ditch, into their yard. She lived directly across from the church with her 50-year-old son who had Downs Syndrome. He was limited in many ways but he was also a hard worker and helped his elderly mother. They were probably surprised to see me at that hour of night, however, I explained and we visited for an hour or so. As I backed out over the bridge, I could not see and suddenly my car was in the ditch. It was not a happy experience, but Frank, the son, got on his trusty tractor and pulled the car out and on the road pointed in the proper direction. After breakfast the following morning, Ed and the young men left with Ed giving them the last bit of cash he had.
That winter of 1953-1954 was very cold and our house seemed impossible to warm. I put Robert in his crib and the other two little boys would accompany me out to the area around our house to gather any scrap of wood we could find. One of the deacons saw us and brought a load of wood, but regardless of how full we filled the heater, the house had no insulation and that heater could do only so much. When temperature took a big dip, an older deacon would back his truck up to my porch. I would go to the door and he would come in to say, ‘Sue, let’s get the baby bed and you and the boys are coming to our house. Leave a note on the door to tell pastor to come to our house.’ We would walk into the Barton’s nice warm house and it was like a different world. They had no children and they were only in their 50s, but at the time, I thought they were old. They insisted we stay until the sun warmed up again. I will never forget the Barton’s kindness to us. We could have been their children such was their love and consideration for us.
A young couple, members of our church, was expecting a baby. The night she went into labor, her husband came for me to stay with her until he could fetch the doctor. Ed drove him and while they were gone, I had my first experience with sickness, but more to the point, a young woman in hard labor. It was not easy and I was sure she was going to die. Not that she screamed; it was the pain in her face. Her very silence frightened the wits out of me. By the time, they returned with the doctor the baby was ready to make an entrance, and I was profoundly relieved.
It was in this first church I helped to attend a young man with fatal cancer and it was heartbreaking. He wasted away before our eyes and yet his attitude was always cheerful. This kid was still in his teens. It was here Ed brought four children from the orphanage to spend the weekend and I learned how very disciplined and polite they were. I learned that being pastor of a church did not mean you only preached on Sunday and Wednesday. Cleaning the church was part of the position, keeping the grounds clean, and other such mundane but demanding activities that, heretofore, never entered my mind. I learned to speak in public, to teach young people and women the Bible, as well as be in charge of vacation Bible School.
Most, or all, of those wonderful people are dead now but I still communicate with one of the deacon’s wife. She is 87, I believe, and lives in a little town in the hills of AR. They were extraordinary people and it was a privilege to know them. They taught me so much during the short time we were there, including how to make fig and pear preserves.
Sue your stories are always so warm and enjoyable…….Keep them coming!
I just stopped in again to read a few of your memories, Sue, and the house you describe here could have been the one my family lived in near Oakland, LA in the 1950′s. The wind whistled through the cracks in the post-Civil War built house, and when we got up for school my three sisters and I counted to 3 and ran just as fast as our feet would carry us to the little rag rug in front of the small butane heater in our bedroom. Our teeth were chattering by the time we got dressed, and then we’d race to the kitchen and stand in front of the oven where Mom had biscuits baking. Our water was from a well on the back porch, and we had to lower a bucket on a rope to get it. The bathroom was a pot during the night, and an outdoor toilet that Daddy built (a 2-holer, because we had 4 girls plus Mom) for daytime use. We only lived there about three years, but when asked where I grew up, that’s where I always think of first. We were poor but happy. Thanks for the reminder of hard, but wonderful, bygone days.
Thanks for your memories, Marian. My grandparents lived in Oakland, and Aunt Effie was born there. You know, looking back, we did not think it was so bad, did we? Maybe others hearing or reading it would think how hard it was, but it really wasn’t. It proves all over again that life is mostly our attitude. Thank you for dropping by. I need to get busy on adding the next little cameo of our life.