i sat by my fire hearthside 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 by the times that have passed. 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.

Sunday School was just the first event in a full day of church things. The church services were at 11:00 a.m. sharp in the sanctuary. We dressed to the nines on Sunday morning: women in elegant suits or dresses and heels, with hats, of course; men in suits and ties and shined shoes, often with fedoras, girls in cute dresses, and boys in miniature suits with no hats and shorts up until school age.

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 until he passed on in 1940. 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.

In those first years of mine, they also had a Wednesday night service. As i recall, it was in the old fellowship hall and nearly all singing gospels with the piano. It went away while i was a preschooler. 

While all of this was going on, the Cub Scouts also held den meetings in Fellowship Hall. I believe it was Troop 147 and there is photo i posted before somewhere to verify that. Mrs. Ellen Schlink was the den mother. I remember i made “Webelos,” the top level of a Cub Scout, and likely the only top level of any organization i actually made.

◆ ◆ ◆

My memories, i admit, are clouded by time. They are long ago and far away. As i sat fireside in the late evening, i remembered more and reckoned those memories weren’t quite as idyllic as i recalled. i confessed to myself i thought, then, of my hometown as a small, hick place that i wanted to escape. It was the “grass is greener” effect on youth, i guess, don’t know.

But goodness, they are great memories without my ruining them with truthfulness.

i plan to return again.

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.

The rains came.

This was a blessing in the Southwest corner. North of our wonderful barrier of the Marines’ Camp Pendleton. The weather guessers are screaming about the dangers of mudslides and toxic ash up in Los Angeles.

But down here, the rains and high humidity are a blessing.

Thanks to all my family and good friends who have expressed their concerns for our safety.

We are safe. We even had a fire tonight.

i wrote this last year. it holds true. i am so happy Mrs. Brooks has such a great husband and we all are friends. i just wish we could get together more often, a difficult thing to accomplish when one couple lives in Hotlanta and the other lives in the Southwest corner.

i first saw her in autumn during her freshman year at Vanderbilt. She was walking back to the women’s quadrangle with several other freshman women. She wore a knee-length skirt, knee high socks and a blouse on a beautiful Nashville sunny day.

i was standing with Charlie Hon, a freshman from Chattanooga (who became a legend in our fraternity) on the porch of the Kappa Sigma fraternity house across the street from the quadrangle. i asked Charlie if he knew her. He replied she was Susan Butterfield, also from Chattanooga. i was infatuated. i thought she was attractive and had beautiful legs.

Then, we had a party. Charlie had a date with his future wife, Ann Hon. Ann was Susan’s roommate in the quad. Butter, by which she was known, was double dating with Jeff Redmile.

i had a date with Jack Daniels. A group of us without dates had been watching the Porter Waggoner show on WSM while waiting for the Flatt and Scruggs show, which followed. It had become a weekly mainstay for about four or five of my brothers and me. Unfortunately, this night, i had stuck a fifth of Mr. Daniels’ fine fare into the refrigerator and began sipping with no governor. My date was having a not-good effect on me about the time the party started.

i took a header on the couch and went to sleep (my version), or passed out (everyone else’s version). When she saw me in my sad condition, she asked Jeff to take her back to the dorm and return to take care of me. He did.

From then on, we have had a relationship. Most of the time, including now, it has been as friends. There were some times when it was much more than that. There was one time when i lost track of her. The Navy has a habit of doing that to folks. But by chance, i found her again. She finally married Mike Brooks, also from Lookout Mountain in Chattanooga. They live in Atlanta and are a great fit.

Susan (Butter) Butterfield Brooks is one of my dearest friends. She and Maureen are also close friends, or as close as you can be with one in Atlanta and one in the Southwest corner. i shall save future birthdays to relate other special moments with Susan here.

Butter remains beautiful in so many ways.

Happy 80th Birthday, Butter.

It is eery here.

i walked to the top of our hill this morning to see what i could see. In 2007, i watched flames and judged we were going to be all right. Today’s climb did not reveal any flames and by noon, all of the ugly dark gray and black smoke had given to light gray and white smoke, almost like clouds, but they weren’t.

For those unfamiliar with our terrain, we have had three wildfires this time around, relatively close. The “Otay Mountain” fire is better known as the “Border 2” fire. The “Otay Mesa” fire is apparently out. Those fires at their closest were about a dozen miles east of us with winds carrying them north, not likely to affect us.

But the skies are surreal. i cannot discern fire smoke from haze, and we do have some weather relief moving in. There is even hope for some rain by the end of Saturday. Our humidity, which has hovered around 5% for the past several days, you know, spark causes wild fire weather, up to a whopping 13% as i write (my nose is dry).

So we are lucky. Many are not.