i sat by my fire in the hearth Saturday night. It was a nice, very cool evening for the Southwest corner.
Waiting for the San Diego Aztec basketball game, i wandered into my dreams…and i remembered.
Lebanon, Tennessee in the 1950s: If you were a youth and Caucasian, you were insulated from the prejudice, at least i was even though i wondered why those other folks didn’t mix with us.
But other than that, the memories were sweet, honed to sweetness by the passage of times.
As early as i can remember, we went to Sunday School every Sunday at the First Methodist Church in Lebanon. It was then on East Main between the Post Office and Hankins & Smith Pontiac Dealership, and an imposing building with annex on the west side that served as a fellowship hall and classrooms. I think the kitchen was in the back. The front had a large number of steps leading up to a Doric columned porch with the large doors to the sanctuary in the middle.
Sunday School at 9:00 a.m. was just the first event in a full day of church things. The church services were at 11:00 in the sanctuary.
We sat on the right (east) side of the three sections, seats next to the aisle in the third row. Our great grandfather had established squatter’s rights on those seats. Bishop Joseph Webster sat there after he retired. Even though he passed on before i was born, i’ve heard many stories, including his sitting there with a big pocket watch. When the 11-12:00 service was about over, the Bishop checked his watch and when it was five or ten minutes from noon (the stories vary on when he checked). At that time, he would slam the cover of his pocket watch shut. It was loud enough for the preacher to hear, which prompted him to conclude what was going on so the service would end on time.
That Sunday morning service was the most formal event of the day with hymns out of the big hymnal where the organ played with great fervor and the notes always included some i couldn’t hit, either too high or too low. The brass tithing plates were passed down each row by the ushers while the choir or a soloist would sing a hymn. Then the preacher would present his sermon. I don’t remember any of those sermons. When i was young and the service was in the warm months, my mother would dress me in shorts, often part of a suit.
As the sermon droned on, i would get restless, and start squirming about, probably making some noise. My mother would stop such shenanigans by pinching my leg. That shut me up. I suspect the folks sitting behind us were quietly chuckling.
After the service, we would either go out to a nice restaurant for a family meal, nearly always with our Aunt Bettye Kate and Uncle Alvin (Snooks) Hall. If not, we all would travel to our home or the Hall’s for dinner (yes, dinner was our mid-day meal and supper was our evening meal). The afternoon was for playing or napping.
When we got older, we would travel with our father back to the church before five. By then, the old annex had been replaced by a newer, two-story annex, much bigger and much nicer. We would go to the Methodist Youth Fellowship (MYF) meeting (i think we had supper before we left home), which lasted just shy of two hours. Meanwhile, my father would attend the men’s choir supper. Each Sunday, several of the wives would prepare supper for the group, which usually numbered around 20 or more. After eating, the men would rehearse their featured song, led by the church’s choir director, Burton Wilson.
The choir and the youths would join wives and mothers in the sanctuary for the 7:00 service. The service consisted mostly of gospel songs from the The Cokesbury Worship Hymnal. It was my favorite event at church. The gang from the MYF meeting would sit in the back under the balcony and whisper to each other. The men’s choir would sing one or two special gospel songs during the service. The sermon, as i recall, was more informal and shorter to allow more gospels.
That evening service also provided one of my most embarrassing moments (and forecast many future FUBARS on the part of the goofy guy. The MYF gang was under the balcony as usual. Collection of the offering had begun at the front rows and moved the back, i.e. under the balcony. When someone handed me the offering plate, which now was full of coins, bills, and a few checks, i fumbled it and dropped it. Rather than simply falling to the ground, the brass plate landed on its edge and rolled loudly to the front of the sanctuary, accompanied by a large number of coins rolling in random and clinking fashion in many directions.
That was not a good Sunday evening. But most were.
I suspect if they had continued the Sunday evening meetings and service, i might have returned home and still be singing gospels on Sunday evenings.