My office -- my father

I'm looking around my office and I'm thinking -- my father. I have become my father.

My dad, in his later years, had so much stuff that it gradually piled up all over the house so that there was a path from the front door to the back door, and into the bathroom and bedroom. All other floor and furniture top space was covered with stuff. I've talked about his collections before.

Well, my office has become my father's house. It's the Christmas room, and it's piled high with presents that need to be wrapped, projects for the grandchildren at our Christmas get togethers. Not to mention the Creative Memories left overs. At least that pile (the CM pile) won't get any bigger. Since it is a small room, it fills up fast.

I'm looking at the bookcase I have in the office, the one, small bookcase. It was the bookcase that my father had next to his captain's chair in the living room. It's as jam packed with books now as it was when dad had it. Two levels deep on each shelf... The books are all hardbacks, most of them are antiques. Most of them, in fact, were given to my father in the early 1900s by his own father and mother and are inscribed as such gifts. That really makes them special.

Once in a while I'll pull one out and read a story or a few poems or even the whole book and try to think what it was like to be a boy reading such literature.

I'm hoping someone gives me a complete set of Jane Austin for Christmas -- leather bound, of course. That's a pretty expensive gift, so I'm not going to hold my breath, but it would be nice. I have not one single book written by Jane Austin, yet I love her stories. And, I would like to read them for myself, not watch them on PBS.

Ugh! The room is eating me up and I'm going to be gobbled up by the debris any minute now. I'd better get out of here before that happens.

ttfn

Daddy's attire

I know I've written about how my father would never go anywhere without wearing a suit. Well take a look at this picture. Here he is wearing a shirt and tie, and if you look closely you can see his vest peaking out behind the bathrobe.

The only thing I can think of as to why he is wearing a bathrobe over his shirt, tie, and vest, is that he was cold.

Just wanted you to see that no matter what, he would never be caught without his tie on. Actually as years progressed, I do have a few pictures of him without the tie, but he still has on a dress shirt and jacket.

Where else could he put all those pens, New Testaments, and change purses?

mtf

Stamp collecting

I may have iterated about this before -- does one iterate about or just iterate? My father collected stamps. Not many, but enough that he had a beautiful collection which was passed on to my brother Mark.

He especially loved to collect British stamps, and he had someone that got him the new stamps as they were printed by the British government, and he was also able to get some older, out of print stamps from that same source. I think he liked the way they were printed and the colors that were used by the Brits.

He also had a complete collection of all US stamps from the 1/2 cent stamp up through the 30 cent stamp. That collection included the standard stamps and the special stamps.

I recall being called into his bedroom where one of his desks was housed (the one he used at home was this particular desk -- a beautiful two-tiered cherry desk with a slant front, book case above, three drawer's below). My brother also got the desk. Anyway, he would call me in and encourage me to look at any new stamp he received through the magnifying glass so I could see the fine lines that made up the picture on the stamp.

Most of his stamps were newly issued, he did not like to get stamps that were cancelled -- that means they went through the postal system and were stamped so they couldn't be used again. But, in rare cases when he couldn't get that particular stamp without the cancelling stamp on it, he would purchase the used stamps.

All stamps he purchased were in pristine condition, and he had special tweezers which he used to place them in the pages that held them and to remove them if he wanted to view them through the magnifier. Those pages had slots so the stamps would slide in and you could get probably 20 stamps per page. He received such pleasure out of his collection.

I may be wrong, but I believe it was his father -- Charles Drexler -- that got him started on that hobby.

Such small items and they gave him such great pleasure.

Cowboys etc.

"One day I was speeding along at the typewriter, and my daughter - who was a child at the time - asked me, "Daddy, why are you writing so fast?" And I replied, "Because I want to see how the story turns out!" Louis L'Amour

I don't know whether my father enjoyed reading Louis L'Amour, but I know he had several Zane Grey books in his HOME library. Those Zane Grey books were in the book shelf that was nearest the TV -- the big one that now sits in my sister's back hallway (at least I think it's still there, it may have been moved). He often encouraged me to read them. I never did. And to this day I haven't read a Zane Grey novel. After I finish all 313 Louis L'Amour books, I'll start on Zane Grey.

Anyway, I thought, wow, that's how I feel when I'm typing something. I want to see how it ends. I just keep plugging away, typing at 100 words per minute (used to be 120) and like to see what ensues.

I don't write stories, but I do relate events that have become family stories. So, I'm always glad when I finish a topic.

Now, back to cowboys. My dad loved cowboy movies or TV shows. We watched Hopalong Cassidy (named a dog after Hopalong); The Lone Ranger; Bonanza; Gunsmoke; Wagon Train; Roy Rogers. Sounds like a lot of TV, but as I recall, cowboys shows were popular in the 50s and early 60s, before sit-coms became the main genre on TV. At least it wasn't sports.

I'm so glad my dad wasn't a sports nut. Oh, he enjoyed watching the Wimbleton Tennis match once a year, and he watched the US Open. But he would much rather watch a cowboy anything than watch a boring baseball game. Sorry to my brother Mark who can't relate to anyone not enjoying watching a slow, boring baseball game on TV.

So this was another bonding thing I had with my dad because I, too, love watching cowboy movies or shows. Thanks, dad.

Star gazing

I recall when I was a teenager (and even into my 20s) laying out on the lawn of the lot next door to the house (which is now a parking lot for the church) and watching the stars and waiting for meteors.

I loved to do that. It didn't matter how cold it was. If there was a meteor shower for that night, I was out there around midnight, laying on a blanket on the cold, damp group waiting for a view of shooting stars.

I think I got my love for star gazing from my father. He had at least three telescopes, and at times he had all three of them out back pointing each one at something different -- i.e., one was pointed at the full moon, another was pointed at Saturn, and another a Jupiter. And he would call me (and anyone else who showed the least bit of interest in his hobby) and ask me to "Look, Judith. Isn't that amazing?" Most of the time I oohed and aahed, but really didn't see what I was supposed to see.


Mostly, I had my head pointed toward the Orion constellation where the meteors would be shooting from.

When I went to college I signed up for Astronomy 101 and 102. And then I signed up for the Astronomy Club -- which meant that once a month went went up on the roof of one of the buildings, looked at either a constellation from which a meteor shower was spewing forth its debris, or we looked through a telescope at Saturn's rings, or Jupiter's moons.

Those were the days!

Interesting thought

I received this text in an e-mail earlier today.

CELL PHONE vs. BIBLE

I wonder what would happen if we treated our Bible like we treat our cell phone? What if we carried it around in our purses or pockets? What if we flipped through it several times a day? What if we turned back to go get it if we forgot it? What if we used it to receive messages from the text? What if we treated it like we couldn't live without it? What if we gave it to Kids as gifts? What if we used it when we traveled? What if we used it in case of emergency?

This is something to make you go....hmm...where is my Bible?

Oh, and one more thing. Unlike our cell phone, we don't have to worry about our Bible being disconnected because Jesus already paid the bill.

Makes you stop and think 'where are my priorities?' And no dropped calls!

Well, you know what? My father did this. He always carried at least a New Testament with him, often a full Bible, very small print. He flipped through it several times a day. He never forgot it, though. It was part and parcel of his left-hand breast pocket. He couldn't live without it. He gave away more Bibles than anyone I know. Interesting e-mail, isn't it?

As he lay dying

This is about my father, as he lay dying. Now, I wasn't there, but my sister was, and she related this little tidbit last Sunday when we were all enjoying a repast after church (in Tennessee -- see previous post).

We were talking about my father and his love for the Word of God and how he shared it no matter when or where he was.

Well, it seems that in his final days, Deb and Jim went to visit him, and he told them he was just to busy to be with them at that time (of their visit) because he was having a conversation with the Sanhedrin. Yes, I can imagine my father discussing the Word (Old Testament portion) in great detail with the members of the Sanhedrin. He probably knew it better than they did!

Anyway, it was a little story about dad that I thought you all would enjoy.

Politics and my father

My father was a Republican, as I've mentioned before. Prior to his death, however, he admitted that Harry S. Truman wasn't such a bad president, even if he was a democrat.

We are coming to the "convention" season. Back in the 40s and 50s all conventions were what is known in today's politcal-eze, as brokered. I don't recall any of the conventions in the 50s and early 60s being cut and dried -- that is you knew who the presidential candidate was going to be before the convention began.

I don't know if that was because there were no primaries, I just don't recall, and I'm too lazy to dig it out on Google. But I do recall the 1952 conventions. We BORROWED a TV so that daddy could watch the two events. And back then, it wasn't just a prime-time TV happening, it was all day long for six days -- how boring is that? Well, I was required to sit and watch this stuff because my father wanted me to experience history in action.

Even when Dwight David Eisenhower was nominated to be the Republican candidate, it wasn't a shoe-in. And then the vice-presidential candidate had to be nominated and elected. Again, Nixon was far from someone they wanted on the ticket.

Eisenhower was the Republican candidate, and the Democrats picked Adlai Stevenson, and I think his vice-presidential running mate was Hubert Humphreys, but I'm not sure about that.

So they had these "brokered" conventions --both parties did -- and it was interesting, actually, mainly because there wasn't too much "punditing" about what happens if they choose this person, or what will happen if they chose that person. Why is Candidate A better than Candidate B. And there certainly was no "operation chaos" -- efforts by the opposition to upset the whole process.

My father sat spellbound watching those conventions, and from time to time he would yell at the TV (like the TV could hear him?) and tell those folks what idiots they were to even think of nominating so-and-so, and then when his candidate came on and was being heralded, he was so happy.

Daddy was very much in favor of Eisenhower's nomination. He thought he would undo a lot of what FDR had done (get rid of a lot of the socialism that had crept into the government because of FDR-induced legislation). And he KNEW that Eisenhower would get us out of Korea pretty quickly. We had lost two of our own church men in that war by 1952, and in a small town that is a lot to lose.

So, Eisenhower was elected, and we gave the TV back to whomever we borrowed it from, and were living in a TV-free, peaceful home again until 1953 -- one year later -- when dad gave in and purchased us a TV.

So, if the Democrat convention is "brokered" it isn't the end of the world, it's just the way it was back when.....

Keep the change

Alan and I went out to eat tonight. I had a very painful day, and so he suggested we eat out. Isn't he a sweetheart?

You all won't believe this, I find it hard to believe myself, but I fell asleep at my computer last night. Alan came into my office around 11 p.m. and there I was with my arms folded over the keyboard and my head on my arms and I was out. He had a difficult time waking me. I don't even remember turning off the computer, but he said I was awake enough to do that.

But, that has nothing to do with the topic, "Keep the change."

That remembrance came about after dinner. We both wanted dessert, but let's face it, Barleycorns doesn't have the best desserts in the world, so we opted for Graeter's instead. After we placed our order, Alan handed me a $20 bill to give to the cashier. When I was handed back the change, I said to Alan, "I get to keep the change, right?" He said, "No." I said, "My father always let me keep the change," and pouted a bit.

You see where I'm going with this?

When I was younger there were two ways I could "keep the change" when I went shopping with or for my father. If he sent me down to Joe's to get ice-cream for himself, me, and my mom (imagine carrying three ice-cream cones) he would let me keep the change. Sometimes it was a nickle, sometimes it was a lot more than that, depending on the denomination of the bill he gave me to give to Joe.

When I would go shopping WITH my father and he would hand me a bill to give to the cashier, I would look at him, bat my longer-than-they-are-now eyelashes, and ask: "Can I keep the change?" My father ALWAYS answered, "Yes."

Any other siblings have that experience?

Rotary versus push button

I, of course, grew up with a rotary phone. And into my early married years, we had a rotary phone. Push button phones came out in the late 60s, I think, but they cost money, and the standard phone issued by the phone company (they gave you a phone with service back then) was black and had a rotary dial. See the picture above.

Even now, as I dial a number, I visualize that rotary dial, and dial the number I'm visualising in my head, transfer it to push buttons, and there you have it, I'm connected to the person whose number I pushed. I can't say "dialed", even though every one does, because, let's face it, we're not dialing anything, we're pushing numbers to get a signal to send to a computer that recognizes that particular push signal as a letter/number and then when all the numbers/letters are pushed in you have a connection on the other end and the phone rings at the place where that particular phone sits. Is that clear?

I do prefer a dial phone myself, although I have to say, I can do one-hand pushing and with a rotary phone, no matter what, you had to hold down the phone with one hand, while you dialed with the other, the only exception being the ones that were attached to the wall.

We still have an old rotary phone, but we don't use it. We've opted out and are using only push-button phones. Is that a cop-out? I don't think so. Is it easier on the fingers? Yes.

But if I were forced to keep a rotary phone, I wouldn't complain.

And thinking about the visual redial thing, maybe it's easier to visualize a number in redial (not repush) because dialing a number is slower than pushing a number. You have to wait for the rotary part to swing back to "zero" so to speak before you can dial the next number.

What brings up this issue is, again, the missive from my niece, Heather, in which she reminded me that my father would NOT give up his rotary phone. No matter how crippled or bent his fingers became, he would NOT give up that phone. I know I spoke to him about it several times, but I guess it was one of those old things that still worked and it was a comfort to him. (We older folks get comfort out of the old things that are worthless or nearly worthless because they remind us of some happy time/event in our life.)

Some things that change aren't always for the better.

KEYS

I received a surprise in the mail -- well via UPS -- today. It was a skate key -- a well-rusted, very old skate key -- from my sister. Thanks, sis.

Nostalgia is something I'm enjoying more and more. And I am so looking forward to a few more days with my sister in the middle of May so we can nostalgize (that's a new word I made up). We're heading down to Tennessee for a couple of days.

Regarding KEYS. My dad had keys -- not as many keys as pens, but he had a few. They were clock keys. Heather reminded me about the clocks. She said that she remembered that he had several in his bedroom and it sounded like a clock shop - tick tock, tick tock. She's correct. But they were of the wind-up variety. He'd see a new bedside clock -- you know those kind you wind up and set the alarm on to wake you up -- and buy it for his bedroom. Never mind that he never set the alarms. But the ticking and tocking? I guess for him it was like a lullaby or something that lulled him to sleep each night.

He also had several other clocks around the house. I remember when his step-mother died and he inherited a couple of clocks. He seemed to be so excited about the clocks. Since I didn't know anything about death, his lack of remorse over his step-mom's death (they had a good relationship) didn't bother me. I was as excited as he was over these new clocks.

One struck on the quarter-hour and played 1/4 of a song -- ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding dong. Can't you just hear it? No, oh, well, you had to be there, and I was. And he got another clock, which now resides on my son's mantle -- it was an old mantle clock. We had no mantle, so he put it on the buffet in the dining room. That clock too, struck on the 1/4 hour, but it was just a bong.

He had one in his office at the church. That one lapsed into a quiet decoration quite often, but he'd chuckle and drag me over to his office to watch him get that clock running again.

I remember one time he took the clock down from the shelf and turned it around so I could see the insides. It had a pendulum and springs and coils and sprockets and he told me how the sprockets moved in a certain way and they were made to precisely keep time. Then, he wound up the clock, gave the pendulum a push, and it started ticking. That clock only struck on the hour.

You know what? I recall the various clocks going off in the middle of the night, but it wasn't something that was jarring. It was relaxing, comforting.

Something else about the KEYS and the clocks. Dad was very precise about time. He checked on the phone with the Naval Observatory from time to time to get Naval Observatory Time. And then, he would make sure every clock was set to that time, including his wrist watch and his pocket watch and my mother's wrist watch!

He didn't like battery operated clocks and he laughed at the annoying sound the electronic clocks made. He never had a grandfather's clock, but if he did......

Resident Staples at your service

That's how my niece, Heather, put it.

Remember I mentioned in a past post that my father was a collector of pens, pencils, etc. You can now link to other memories about my father and his being a "resident Staples at your service." Just link up with "pens and pencils" and you'll be able to reread the BLOGs about daddy's affinity for pens and pencils.

What brought this up was that my father had pens, pencils, paper, notebooks, briefcases, rulers, paper clips -- in other words -- Staples in his home office, and more in his church office.

He kept these things so he could give them away. Now, you have to realize that Staples was a late-bloomer as far as stationery stores is concerned -- at least in my father's life. His favorite was over in Somerville -- New Jersey Business Supplies -- I think that was the name of it. I loved that store, also. And, they had things in there that Staples doesn't carry to this day, but that I can get on-line, if I need them.

I'm a lot like my father -- a collector of pens and pencils, but I have them for my grandchildren who want them (mostly Shandon and Toria). If I find a new pencil or a new pen, I get a stock of them, then when I see the grands, I pass them out. My father's desk is filled with pens and pencils for the grandchildren.

I also have several fountain pens. I do prefer a fountain pen to a ball-point or felt tip. I guess it's because when I was growing up my father gave me an Esterbrook pen and pencil set. I treasured that set. I still have the pen.

Now with an Esterbrook pen you could buy different "nibs" (points) and they would screw in and you would have a wider or narrower point on your pen -- sort of like calligraphy pens today, but it was all in one pen, just the nibs were changed out. And, of course, you had to have ink so you could fill the rubber tube that held the ink when you ran out. I collected ink colors as well.

So, you see, my father started me off in this.

Now days you have to by ink cartridges -- not as easy to change or refill the ink supply as it was with the old-fashioned lever mechanism on the outside of the pen that caused the rubber tube to collapse inside, then when you released the lever I guess the intake of air above the ink caused the ink to come back into the pen from the bottle. It's hard to describe unless you've done it -- fill a fountain pen the old-fashioned way, that is.

They even have disposable fountain pens nowadays. They're made by Pilot. I have to order them on-line; and they come in all colors. I love them.

Thanks, Heather, for reminding me about the pens and pencils. It's just one of the things that made my father unique!

Crooked fingers

I heard from my niece, Heather, today. We've been out of touch for years. I keep up with her comings and goings by talking to my brother, Carl. He's her oldest child. She was born shortly after my son, Phil. So she's...I won't tell you how old she is. She might not appreciate it.

She asked me some questions about things that were my father's and mother's and if I knew where they were. Heather lived with my father for a while when she was in her 20s and struggling to get started in her career. She always seemed to really love her Grandfather (she stayed with him after my mom died) and he, her.

Anyway, she's engaged. No date set for the wedding. She said her fiance makes fun of her crooked pointy index fingers and was wondering if she got that from my father.

My dad had really bad arthritis in his hands and his fingers were so bent, I often wondered how he could hold a fork or play the piano, or type. Now, I have crooked fingers -- my pinkie, left-hand finger top points toward my ring finger, and my index finger, right hand, top points toward my thumb. So, I know the answer to my wondering now that I'm experiencing the same thing. I can type -- a little slower than I used to -- and I can hold a fork and a knife. I just figure I have the perfect curve in my index finger, right hand, to go around that mouse I've grown so fond of in the last 10-15 years!

My sister has crooked fingers as well. My mom, didn't. I mean, when she was 80 her fingers were gnarled and misshapen, but they weren't bent sideways like my father's were, and like mine are, and like my sister's are, and now, like Heather's are. It's in the genes!

Let's begin at the beginning

My father was a creationist -- not in the scientific sense, but in the Biblical sense. He believed the Bible literally, and never wavered from that.

So, I'm beginning at the beginning. I was taught that God created everything. We didn't morph from water to fish to frogs to people, or whatever the sequence is that evolutionists want us to accept. I was taught that God's Word is truth, and if God said He created the heavens, the earth, and all that was in it, then we were blaspheming Him or denying Him, if we didn't believe what He said.

Dad and I had times when we had to fight for this belief. I've mentioned the time with Mrs. Jackson (prehistoric Jackson) when I was in 5th grade. The trouble is that dad didn't think there were dinosaurs. He thought that the dinosaur imaginings in museums ALL came the the northeast corner of someone's imagination (that's one of my father sayings, by the way). He learned late in life that there were dinosaurs, but they were here before, during, and after the flood, and we're just now finding the fossils.

What Dad had a hard time getting a handle around regarding dinosaurs, is why there are so many dinosaur fossils, and so few people fossils, when he was certain the people far outnumbered the dinosaurs prior to the flood, and why are there so many dinosaur fossils and so few other animal fossils. He thought maybe every bone that was found was tagged as a dino fossil, when, in fact, maybe it was a horse leg, or something. That was my father. Questionning science, not questionning God's word.

The other event was in high school, and it wasn't even in a science class, it was in a history class. I couldn't answer the test questions correctly because I knew that my teacher's dating process was skewed -- he believed the lie. My father went in to see that teacher, and I was permitted to not answer those questions, and to not be docked from my score for not answering them. However, I was warned that questions like that were on the SATs and I'd be wise to "lie" on that test if I wanted to get into a college.

My father was not a happy camper when he read the Western Civilization history book. Piltdown man, hump-back man? God created man -- upright -- no questions. Whatever they found -- the hunched over man -- there was a reason, but it wasn't because God had created man that way and eventually he stood up straight. Man was created perfect, and then deteriorated -- that's what daddy believed.

You know what? He was right. I believe that 100 percent.

My father's sermons

I loved my father. I also didn't appreciate my father.

My father was a preacher. Actually, he was a teacher. Teaching God's Word was what he did, and when he did that his whole countenance changed. No matter how old he got, when he opened God's word, and started talking about what was on those pages, he lit up, like a Christmas tree, I guess would be the idiom.

I really didn't appreciate my father's teaching, but in the next few BLOGging sessions, I hope to give you an inkling of the little bit that I remember of what he taught me and his congregation.

For this remembrance, let me say that my father was a teacher. He wasn't a visitor of the sick, although, he did visit the sick. He wasn't fond of conducting funerals, unless he had carte blanche with God's word from the deceased's family. He wouldn't marry two people who were "unequally yoked" -- in other words, he wouldn't marry a believer to an unbeliever. He wouldn't marry anyone who had been previously divorced.

He believed in church discipline. If a church member was "misbehaving" -- that is, behaving contrary to the principles set forth in the Bible and openly flaunting that behavior -- they were not permitted to be part of the Lord's supper.

He believed that the King James version of the Bible was the best translation that there ever was and spent his life finding things that were "out of kilter" with other translations. He knew Greek and Hebrew and often used the old manuscripts to defend his belief that the translators of King James got it correct. Personally, I learned Scripture from the King James version, and all the other versions sound funny to me.

So, get ready, we're going on a journey -- a journey that may mean longer breaks between BLOGs because I want to get my father's teaching to me, correct.

Just out of reach

Today was a wonderful day weather wise. It was sunny, high in the high 60s, and a gentle breeze. The sun porch was the place to be.

Alan decided to join me today -- a first since we enclosed our deck/veranda/lanai -- and it was so pleasant just sitting out there reading -- he his book, me mine.

Then something happened that reminded me of something I don't think I've BLOGged before about my father's teasing. Oh, I've BLOGged about his teasing but not this particular stunt.

My brother Mark and I are masters at this one!

When we were sitting at a table and someone would ask for, say, the salt, if it was near daddy he would hand it to you just out of reach, and as you grabbed for it he would slowly pull it back until you almost lay sprawled across the table!

So, today I was handing Alan a Dr. Pepper and didn't even realize I was pulling that trick that dad pulled on us so often, and which when I get together with my brother Mark, we reprise. I handed him the can, and as he reached for it, I pulled back and started to leave the room. He said, "Your just like your father." I stopped. I knew what he meant, and I laughed. Then I really pulled the stunt on him with the glass of ice -- on purpose!!!!

Now, it's almost dinner time, and I asked him where we were going for supper. He said, "Waffle House" knowing that I will never, even if I am starving to death on a deserted island where the only place to eat is a Waffle House, enter a Waffle House. Been there, done that, hated it, still feel greasy!

So, where are going for dinner? No where. That's the response when he doesn't want to go anywhere for dinner. Guess he's having frozen pizza for supper. I might even heat it up in the oven.

I married my father

Left is a picture of my husband Alan with our latest grandchild -- Elliana. On the right is a picture of my father practicing the piano in the backroom of the church he pastored for 50 plus years

It occurred to me today that I was told a long time ago that I married my father. Well, today confirmed that.

My father used to carry a cloth bag with him wherever he went. Today, and recently, Alan has taken up that pasttime. If he goes to the car, he carries a bag. If he gets out of the car, he carries a bag. Now, I'm not saying the bag isn't useful. I use my hands, Alan and my father used a bag. I carry the mail in my hands, no bag required, even for bigger loads. Alan now uses a bag to do that.

Just a short remembrance of my father, who when we cleared out his home must have had around 50 of these cloth bags that he had collected from the local and not-so-local banks and stores and freebies in the mail. Alan's on his way toward such a collection. On my!

My father -- again

Dad as you know was a preacher/teacher. He loved God's Word, to the point that if he were engrossed in a passage of Scripture, the house could burn down around him and he wouldn't notice.

Dad spent one day a month taking communion to the elderly, or those who were unable to get to church on the first Sunday of the month -- that was communion Sunday. He had the neatest "kit". It was made of leather, like a doctors bag, but not as large. It contained a jar with a lid on it for the "wine" (Welch's grape juice), four small sipping glasses, a small silver tray for the Matzo (the bread to be broken), and a napkin in which to wrap the Matzo until it was broken onto the plate. Dad carried The Word in his pocket (well, really in his head, but he always opened The Book and recited the Lord's Supper passages).

Children were not permitted to participate in the partaking of the Lord's Supper until they were 11 and had passed all the questions asked by the pastor, deacons, and trustees, about their belief in Christ, and then were baptized. After being baptized, one could take the Lord's Supper on the first Sunday of the month.

Dad would prepare for this service by filling the cups in putting them into the cup holders -- he did this early on Sunday morning. And he would get three matzos and place them in a folded napkin on a silver tray, and then carry all these items over to the church and set them up on the table in front of the podium. He'd drape the whole thing with a white, freshly pressed table cloth. That way, people coming to church that day knew it was communion Sunday.

The deacons would head down front and dad would give them the trays of "bread" to be passed out, then after they returned to the front of the church with the trays, dad would serve the deacons, saying, "This is my body, which is broken for you, do this in remembrance of me." And then he would say, "Eat ye all of it," at which point we would all chew on our small bit of matzo. Then the cup would be passed around. The juice was put in tiny, almost thimble-sized cups and each person took one cup, and held it. When all the cups were passed out, the men would walk back to the front of the church, and dad would pass out the cup to the deacons, saying, "This is my blood which was shed for you." "As long as ye eat this bread and drink this cup, you shall show the Lord's death until He comes." Then, "Drink ye all of it."

Then we'd sing the Doxology and leave.

Won't it be wonderful when we are at our Lord's table and he is serving us this supper in person?

Idiosyncrasies

Idiosyncrasies ... my dad had a few, as I stated in a earlier post, then promptly chased a rabbit toward his years as a pastor.

I just thought my father was normal, but apparently, not everyone did. Not that they were ready to take him to Lakeland (the nearby-mental institution) or anything, just that he was a collector of wierd things. Another time, another topic -- his collections.

Dad had a routine, which wasn't necessarily wierd, but he stuck to that routine no matter what. In all the years I lived at home he NEVER took a vacation. For him a vacation was going to a Bible Conference and teaching, and, I supposed, because we couldn't afford to accompany him, it was a break from four rambunctious children.

Anyway, dad would get up and go through his morning ritual of shower/bath, shaving, leaving the bathroom in is underwear to get to his bedroom where he got dressed. The bathroom always smelled of Aqua Velva after shave and was steamy when he left it. There were times when I would be in pain waiting for him to get finished with his pre-dressing rituals because I had to go to the bathroom so badly. No matter what, it took him 1/2 hour to finish -- everyday, 365 days a year.

Once he dressed, in his three-piece suit with suspenders and tie, he would get himself some toast and coffee. He often made the coffee -- we had a drip coffee pot -- and he would put an egg and a pinch of salt in the water and this was supposed to make the coffee taste better.

After he ate this small breakfast, he'd go to the post office to get the mail. Runnemede did have a postman or two which delivered mail to your home, but dad preferred going to the post office, because, I suppose, he could get mail twice a day, rather than once. The mail was put into the boxes in the early morning then again in the late afternoon.

After he got the mail he would come home, go through the mail, then head over to the church. He had an office/library in the church and there he would study until lunch time.

At this time my memory gets fuzzy and I don't know whether it's because in the afternoons I was usually out either playing with a friend or at school, but I don't recall any afternoon activities.

Dinner was promptly at 6 p.m. We had to finish by 6:45 p.m. because that's when Lowell Thomas came on the radio and dad listened to that newscaster every evening. We had a drop-leaf table in the kitchen and he sat at one end of the table -- the end nearest the radio. To his right was Debbie, then mom, opposite dadwas Carl who sat on a stool, then around the bend opposite my mom was Mark, and I was next to my dad, on Mark's right, dad's left.

Oft times dad would stir his coffee and touch my hand with the hot spoon, as a tease. And then he would dip the spoon in the coffee and give me a sip. The touch with the spoon was so I would know that it was hot enough, but not too hot. Wierd?

After dinner dad and we children listened to the radio -- we heard The Lone Ranger, Superman, Amos and Andy, My Little Margie, A Date with Judy, Our Miss Brooks, or The Shadow depending on which day of the week it was. Then it was off to bed for us children.

In the morning, the whole routine would start again.

The way the church was

I've written in many of these notes that my father was pastor of a church -- that would be Mt. Calvary Union Church, on Clements Bridge Road in Runnemede. The church was, over 60 years ago, a white clapboard building. The sanctuary was in the front part of the building on the top floor, and behind that was a large room, used for Sunday school, and behind that, before the bathroom was put in, there was another long, narrow room, which was used for the little kids Sunday school.

I'm not sure when that space was divided (the back room), but I think it was around 1948 or 49. It was made into two rooms -- one, a study for my father, and the other part was made into a restroom for the ladies. Up until that time, there was one bathroom and it was used by any and all who needed to use it. Downstairs there was one room, which was under the back room, and also a kitchen, very small, no refrigerator, but it had a stove and a sink in it. I remember it was always dark in there. The heating unit was also housed in this downstairs room.

About the time of the upstairs renovations, the downstairs was made larger, and the "cellar" which was under the main auditorium was tiled and used for Sunday school classes. The tile being green and gray blocks. So, we now have this large room which is under the entire church building. It was decided to put up folding doors and divide that large room into smaller rooms for Sunday school purposes. On New Years' eve or during wedding receptions, it was opened up so there was room for probably 150 people down there.

Each of these three sections had it's own piano, and before the classes began each Sunday, there would be singing with the various age groups. Upstairs in the back was the pre-school department. Downstairs in the back (near the kitchen) was the grade-school department (through 5th grade), in the middle section the 6th through 8th grades took up residence, and then in the front section, was the high-school Sunday school.

I remember a time when all the ladies of the church painted the small chairs for the Sunday school classroom for the pre-schoolers in colors of pink, blue, and yellow. They also painted the tables to match. The adult chairs to be used in that department were also painted those colors.

I always thought the main auditorium was so pretty. The lights were pewter and the ceiling looked like painted tin, which it may be, I'm not sure. The wainscoting was also painted tin, I think, at least it looked like that, then the rest was plaster.

I remember it was a big deal when the old pews were replaced with the new pews. The men of church built the pews from kits, and a new carpet runner was installed down the center aisle.

The pulpit was on a platform which was raised two steps above the main floor. And around platform was a railing with a kneeling pad for those who wished to go to the altar to pray. Behind the pulpit and to the left of the speaker (to the right of the congregation) was the organ. I remember when it was a pump organ, and then in the early 50s the Hammond organ was purchased.

My father loved to play the organ and see if he could get it to sound like a pipe organ. You know, like the organ at Wanamakers. And he would fiddle with the "stops" on that organ, and pull those bars out and push others in, until he thought he had a true pipe organ sound. My ears never heard "pipe organ", but his did. So, I guess music is in the ear of the beholder.

I started playing the piano in Sunday school when I was 10, and started playing the piano in church when I was 13. My mom taught me my first "improvisation" techniques. And since giving a lesson in music improv would be a lengthy proposition, I won't do that here. Just know, that when you improvise what is written in a hymnal it sounds much better than if you play exactly every note that is written.

My mom played the piano at church for as long as I could remember until that time I took over, and then she went to the organ. Of course, I played the organ for couple of years, and then Jean Manduka became the organist. I think mom was relieved when the youngsters took over. I know she spent a lot of time practicing for morning service (as did I, and then Jean).

The church was plastered on the outside with ugly gray asbestos siding and it was like that until maybe the late 80s or early 90s when it was resided with aluminum that looks like the clapboard that originally covered the outside of the church (as seen in the picture above).

Other changes have been made to the church through the years (like side walk improvements that made it so nice to have a place to skate), a new sign, the ramp into the front of the building, and others. The church will be celebrating it's 100th anniversary in two more years. I hope I'm around for that.