Preface
Carl's sermon got me thinking yesterday... I know, I know, brace yourselves. :) First, I must give a little background to that sentence. For fifteen months or so, I had the pleasure of working with Carl Utley, a fantastic interim pastor and just what Covenant needed to prepare for new leadership. Carl has been a terrific mentor and more than that become a trusted friend who has supported me through some difficult moments in the last year. I confess I didn't say goodbye to him yesterday, on purpose. Not only because he is the new General Presbyter for the next few years so I will see him, but because it fills me with deep sadness that our daily work together has officially come to a close.
Anyway, his sermon struck a chord with me. He said that we all have stories to tell. Stories that cultivate hope. These words made me think maybe that would be a fun series of blogs to do share for the summer. Just some stories from my life, stories that I think cultivate hope from my own life.
Pocket Road
My earliest memories are of growing up "in the pocket" in Hurt, Virginia. We moved there from Salem when I was about three years old. My Daddy built our beautiful house on land that was my Mother's family farm. Our house was white with black shutters and a porch that stretched across the front of it. My memories of that house play in my mind like a movie flashback, slightly tinted and fuzzy at the corners. My adult mind recalls that it was probably really hard to keep the red clay from staining that white siding. And I remember Mama saying you couldn't put a hoe in the ground without pulling up a rock. But, for a young, only child, that home, "The Ponderosa" we called it--was a magical place tucked beyond a hay-field, just into the forest where fairies lived in the woods, porch railings were horses, and fireflies were friends.
I remember Daddy letting me pretend to help him build the house. I climbed on mountains of sand and hammered nails with my plastic tools. I did all of this shirtless, as I thought that this was a prerequisite for carpentry. Again, through my adult eyes I can only imagine what my presence felt like to my Dad. One part swelling with pride that your child wants to be just like you and two parts exasperated that you can't get anything done with your little shadow following you everywhere!
When I wasn't at home with my parents, I was with my Grandma Pearlie at her house, just down the road, around the curve. As I got older, I could walk through the woods to get to her house. Pearlie's house had been her home since she married. It was a little gray house with a sunny back porch and a little kitchen that was always warm. She kept snacks for me in the bread box on white counter tops flecked with gold. I drank flat coke from a skinny orange cup (that is the way I liked it) and to this day I don't know what happened to that little orange cup and it saddens me. My favorite recollections of the early days at Pearlie's house include pulling out Mama's beautiful dolls from her dresser drawers and making mud-pies in the back yard. Mama's dolls were tall and thin, they looked like perfect ladies and their blue eyes closed when you laid them down. One was a bride and one was a ballerina. Again, I wonder if we kept those in the attic somewhere. My mud-pies were baked in the sun on three black rectangle trays with yellow flowers painted in the middle. I decorated them with stones from the driveway and dandelion blooms.
I would go to Pearlie's house early in the morning, sometimes before the sun came up. Daddy would get me out of bed and dress me, Mama had already left for her work at the hospital in Lynchburg. Daddy and his friend Bill would pile into Daddy's Ford with me in the middle and take me down the road to Pearlie's house. Then they would go on their way to a construction site for the day. You see, Daddy had his own company in those days. He could (can) build anything. A lot of times I would go back to sleep in Pearlie's four poster bed, the scent of her shampoo on the pillow. When I woke up she would rock me in her chair out on the back porch until I asked for a snack. To this day I still love Ritz crackers and cheddar cheese.
I would live in my imaginary world often outside in the morning sun while Pearlie watched me from the windows until lunch time. Our lunch routine required eating lunch at the bar in the kitchen, I remember eating cheese sandwiches, or hot dogs. Sometimes Pearlie made me brownies for desert. There were also Oreo's on top of the fridge. I don't know who licked the icing out of the center and put them back together. Then we would watch The Price is Right with Bob Barker, WDBJ 7 News with Robin Reed (yes I've trusted Robin for the weather my whole life) and then The Young & The Restless and The Bold and The Beautiful..... Pearlie would never, ever tell you she watched those shows on T.V., but I live to tell the tale. Did I nap in the afternoons? I don't recall. What I do remember is sitting on the brown, fuzzy carpet by the television, or next to Pearlie on the couch. I remember well her navy pants, that were slightly rough to the touch and her polyester blouses that she made for herself. Blue was her favorite color. She always told me that God must have loved blue and green because he made so much of it.
One day a week we went into town to the Winn Dixie for groceries. Sometimes we would see neighbors Margaret and Kyle walking the perimeter of the parking lot for exercise. If it was too hot they moved indoors making laps around the outer aisles. One morning a week was laundry day. For some reason I want to say it was Tuesday. And if I remember correctly, one day a week was the day for Pearlie to wash her hair. When I was really small Pearlie had long hair halfway down her back. It was pure white and thick. Mama said it had been that way since she was very young, even when Mama was a little girl it was white as snow. Pearlie would wash her hair in the sink and then she would go into the bathroom and begin to coil it around the back of her head. I don't know how she did it, but I wish now that my young eyes had made sense of what her nimble fingers were doing so I could replicate it. I'd sit on a tall, white metal stool in her bathroom and keep her company while she hummed hymns and put a million bobby-pins in her hair.
My Saturdays were filled at home running through the hayfields, laying down in the middle where no one could see me and looking up at the puffy clouds floating by. I remember waking up before my parents and tiptoeing into the living room to turn on the TV. I'd stretch myself across the blue flowered couch and watch Winnie The Pooh. At home, I had a Barbie wonderland under the stairs and I would play for hours while Mama undoubtedly made multiple trips up and down those stairs to the washer and dryer. Mama would always say things to me like, "I love you skinny legs and all" or "Let me have your eyelashes." She taught me at a young age to say, "Thank you Mama, you're a good woman." Daddy was always outside building something, fixing something, mowing the lawn. In the afternoons sometimes I'd go out and see what he was into. We always had a basset hound never far from his side. Gertrude LaRue was my favorite, the girl I grew up with. I remember her chasing terapins, bringing them from the woods and dropping them at Dad's feet in the garage. Gertie would get distracted with something else and the turtle would eventually stick his head out and sneak away. She'd find him and bring him back.
On Sundays, Pearlie would pick me up and take me with her to Hurt United Methodist Church. The morning would start off with what I can only assume now was a brief devotion and prayer in the sanctuary. I would stare up at a stained glass window at the front of the sanctuary depicting Jesus praying in the garden. Somehow it seems to me that I always understood that the window was placed in honor of my grandfather, Crebo, who I only met once at three months old. He was a beloved teacher and leader in the church. Then we would go to Sunday School. I would climb the stairs with several other children and go into a sunlit classroom where Mrs. Genevieve was the teacher. We sat around a table with child-size wooden chairs and the stories of the Bible came to life. After that, we'd return to the sanctuary and most times Mama and Daddy would join us for worship. I remember going forward and kneeling at the railing for communion. Or sometimes singing with my friends at the front of the church. Most days I just laid down in the pew and rested my eyes while all the adults had church. I remember when the pastor left, sometime in early elementary school I guess, and Rev. Marianne Byrd came to be the pastor. She wasn't there very long and I remember the adults talking about how she wasn't really accepted because she was a woman. Even then, that seemed odd to me. I mean all of my preschool teachers were female, my mama worked at a hospital and saved lives. My days were spent with my doting grandmother--all girls--so why was Marianne not a good fit?
I suppose looking back on these early memories of my childhood gives me hope for the future of my own son. These years were bound to be hard for my parents. My dad was trying to build his own business in a tiny town which would continue to lose factories and businesses in those years. My mom was commuting to her job in Lynchburg and working in a brand new cath lab at Virginia Baptist. They managed to build a home for me where I felt safe and loved. As I described it to you, almost a magical kingdom for me and my imagination to grow. I understand now that for my grandmother to watch me all those years through elementary school was really a lifeline for her. She had a difficult life and she'd lost her husband right after I was born. And yet as a little girl, even though I heard stories about Crebo, I would never have known or understood that grief. So, when days are difficult I have to remember that this is a magical time for Kemper. A time for him to make memories with his parents and grandparents. These early years instilled in me the importance of children's relationships with their grandparents. It also makes me value the time he spends with me at church. It is okay if he doesn't "get it"--the stories and the traditions. He sees the community, he feels the love of the people, and that is special.
And so I have to close my tablet now, hit publish and be done. Because there is a little boy in his pjs, begging to go outside with his bubble machine, ready to start his magical day.
