Church and the Child

When I was small and living at 4102 I don’t ever remember going to church. Then, in our gypsy time (Ogle farm, Circleville, bed bug/Blondie house, summer camp) we were too far away to even try. When we returned to the East End we kids were older and began going on a regular basis.

We went with neighbor kids because neither mom nor dad attended. Mom had stopped going in high school. She was angered when, in the church she attended, two girls got pregnant. One was poor and was thrown out of the church. The other came from a family with money and they sent their daughter away to “boarding school” until she had given birth and her child put up for adoption. She was welcomed back to the church as though nothing had happened. Mom thought this hypocritical—and of course she was correct. She never attended a church again as long as she lived. She did read the bible, however, and when hers began falling apart late in life she had me buy her a new one for her 81^st birthday.

Dad was another story. His job had him working nearly every Sunday. He did go with me to father & son night, knew all the hymns, etc., so it was clear he had gone regularly at some time, but  didn't attend any longer. Perhaps it had something to do with the farmer who had taken the belt to him every morning because, “He was a sinner bound for hell.” I didn’t ask, and he didn’t tell.

We first attended a Methodist church about three blocks away, but in school I became good friends with a kid who was the son of the Baptist pastor. His name was Billy Evans and his dad was Pastor William Glenn Evans. As a result I began attending the Columbia Baptist church—a great decision for me.

Columbia Baptist as it looks today: It hasn't changed.

I went to Sunday School and the main service—but most importantly—I went to their Friday night Boy’s Club. It consisted of about 40 or more boys between the ages of 9-12. That meant that on each Friday there were that many kids that couldn’t get in trouble in what was becoming a rough area.

The club was run by two brothers, Gil and Reynolds Owens, plus any other helpers they could rustle up—but Gil and Ren as we knew them—were always there.

They worked out a deal with the YMCA (about five blocks from the church) that allowed us access so we could play basketball, volleyball, wrestle and work off energy in general. When we weren’t at the “Y” we made crafts or had activities in church. Below is a picture of a hotplate I made mom and still use today. We also painted ceramics, built bookends and who knows what else.

  

Once there was a chess tournament in two classes. I won the one for young kids and was slaughtering the champ of the older kids when I stalemated him and he got off with a draw. I had never heard of stalemate before and couldn’t believe he could get a draw when all he had was his king and I still had four or five pieces. It didn't seem fair, but rules were rules.

I was baptized in 1958 and received a bible from mom and dad that Christmas. It is shown below along with a couple of perfect attendance pins. In the Garden and Rock of Ages are still among my favorite hymns.

(L) The Bible my folks gave me and (R) My sisters and I set for Easter with my friend Darb Dewar.

There was a drug store two doors west of the church. It was owned by Lee Douglas—a very committed Christian. Mr. Douglas supplied free stamps weekly to the stamp club at McKinley school, sponsored a picnic for the boys club at his house in the country—complete with a stocked pond for fishing contests. He also provided much of the cash to pay for the ceramics we boys went through at meetings and very likely a whole lot more. 

Later he helped arrange an opportunity that would never have been available otherwise—but more about that when the proper time comes.

I don’t want to leave him here without mentioning something I realized later. In all he did, Mr. Douglas never stipulated it was only for church members. He just wanted to help children. A fine Christian man.

Of course there was much more than church going on. There was baseball at McKinley every day in the summer. We’d begin about nine o’clock and play until it was nearly dark—or until I heard dad’s whistle. The whistle signaled it was time I high-tailed it home. Or else!

Little league would interrupt the McKinley games, of course. Any chance to wear a baseball uniform trumped everything else. It helped that I was a good player, too. It is sad, but dad never got to see me play. When I’d come home we’d talk about the game, but at first he would be working and toward the end he was too weak to go.

Mom, bless her heart, would walk the ten or eleven blocks to see the games when her friend could watch the girls. The first time she came, although she said she hollered the entire game, I was so engrossed in playing I didn’t even know she was there! It was a complete shock for me to see her when the game ended. After that I paid a bit more attention to the spectators.

There were many trips with dad. He once took me to a little diner outside the city—to an amazing place. The food was delivered from the kitchen by an electric train! How cool is that?! Another time, when I had discovered music on the radio, he let me play my first songs on a counter juke box in another restaurant. I played One-Eyed, One-Horned Flying Purple People Eater and Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Yellow Polka-dot Bikini and my all-time favorite—Blue Moon.

 

There were more baseball games—one to see Willie Mays play. My dad said he was the best player he had ever watched—and he had seen Dimaggio et. al. He told me he had attended a game in every major league park until the Dodgers and Giants moved to California.

I also got to go with him to a couple of Cincinnati Royals games to watch Oscar Robertson and Jerry Lucas. Once we had courtside seats near one basket. I hadn’t imagined how much brute force basketball players used in there. Watching a 280 pound Wayne Embry pound his way into a position for a rebound was quite the sight.

At home dad taught me a little about cards, how to play chess and shared much advice. One of the things he said many times was to always respect another person unless they proved to be unworthy of your trust. Another was that if I paid attention I could learn something from nearly everyone I met. Years later I read this in the Analects of Confucius, 

"The Master said, Even when walking in a party of no more than three I can always be certain of learning from those I am with. There will be good qualities that i can select for imitation and bad ones that will teach me what requires correction in myself,"  Book 7:21

And I thought of dad immediately.

 

This was the best time of my life. I got to spend time with dad, my hero, and had a great church to attend, and could play without a care. I want to leave things here for now and take a deep breath. Why? Because my next post will be tougher to write and I want to get it right.