About Us

60 remembering 6

Once upon a time I was six years old. When I was six, we lived on a very quiet street, just two blocks from the Arkansas River. We lived in a nice house, with a big porch across the front, a little porch on the east which came out of the kitchen, and a spooky cellar door where there were a lot of black widow spiders. I liked to go down the stairs to the basement and see the black widows along the way. I was very careful not to touch any of them.

The house had a full basement. In one corner, there was a raised place, an "ante-room" where I liked to pretend I had my "office." It was like my daddy's Office, and I would pretend I was at work in that office.

The porch which was small and came from the kitchen was just a way to get down the steps to the ground. I remember the early mornings when I would leave the kitchen and go out to play. One morning I walked into the grass and was surprised to discover it was very wet. It had not rained the night before and I wondered where the water came from. It was my first experience of dew. I liked the cool refreshing feeling of the dew on my feet. Cuttings from the grass stuck to my feet like glue. Our grass was not always beautiful. In fact, we had a big bare spot out in front where the wind and the sand kept blowing the grass out of the ground. It may have been ugly to some, but to me it was great! I learned to play marbles in that big bare spot on the front lawn.

I always liked to play marbles. When I was six, I wasn't very good at it. I was playing with a bigger boy one day, and he played "for keeps." I had no idea what that meant, but when the game was over, he had all of my marbles. I went home and told my dad what had happened, and he listened while I explained that I thought we were playing "give back keeps." He was not angry or unsympathetic, but the marbles were all gone. It was a long time before I played "for keeps" again.

When I was a bit older, I was better at marbles. There was another boy in the neighborhood who was not as good a player as I was. It was fun to play "For keeps" with him. I had a lot of marbles when we got through. He always seemed to be able to go home and get more marbles, and I was always glad to see him come back. One day I had "won" a lot of marbles from my neighborhood friend. It was late in the evening, and my parents were going to Church for a worship service. We went to church a lot when I was 6 and older. The Church we went to was having a "revival." My folks liked to go to revivals. There was good music, the preacher was interesting and it was not expensive. We didn't have much money - not even enough to replace my lost marbles - and so we didn't spend a lot on entertainment. I always liked to go to the revival, but it was not easy to sit still and listen.

The night we went to the revival my folks just picked me up from the big spot where we played marbles, and took me along with them. I was a little weary from playing, and not too interested in what was happening in the Church. When we went to church, we were usually just a little late, and this evening we were late as usual. When that happened, we had to sit in the balcony. The balcony was big and had straight chairs and no carpet. Of course, we sat as far back from the front as possible. We always did. I couldn't see too well, so I stretched just a little. A marble fell out of my pocket, and began to roll down the steps of the balcony. I started to get it, and as I did, some more marbles also joined the first one. My mother was upset, so she grabbed me by the shoulder, as mothers alone can do. Immediately, the whole pocket full of marbles joined all the rest, and it was quite a scene. In fact, the service was stopped until the marbles all came to rest. I learned not to take marbles to church, but nothing was ever said about the way I had acquired all the marbles I had. It was my first lesson about the evils of gambling.

Since we lived near the river, it was always an attraction to every child and young person in the neighborhood. My mother was afraid of many things that might harm her children, and the river was among the most dangerous. Hence, there was an oft-spoken warning: "Don't go near the river!" I always tried to obey my mother, because the consequences of disobedience were serious. I also liked to play with my friends and they all played near the Arkansas River. So did I - without my mother knowing! We played football on the sandbars, swung from a tire attached to a tree, went wading minnows, fished, and ice skated in the winter. It was an awesome place, and I loved to be near its meandering water and spongy sandbars.

There were two occasions at the river when events did not go well. Once, I was Ice skating in the winter with several of my friends. Actually, it was late enough in the winter the ice was not as reliable as it was when the weather was really cold. I was skating along a "melt," and my foot went through the ice. I reacted quickly, and pulled my leg out of the watery ice. In moments, my trousers were frozen, and I could not go home! I spent a frightening moment, but it did not change my deceptive ways.

A second time, we were wading out in the middle of the river for minnows. It was an easy thing to do- just wade in off the bank and out toward a sandbar in the middle. The shallows were replete with minnows. All was going well, until we noticed the sand bar was getting smaller. Suddenly we knew the river was rising - and increasing in flow. The river often rose quickly when there were rains upstream, and often there was no indication in a place such as we were seining.

I did not swim, and had to wade out. Carrying a seine and a bucket, we went to the place where we had entered the river - shallow enough to be below our knees. We both knew the river could washout a sand hole easily, and were worried about that. In addition, the water was rising rapidly. As I went to the place of our entry, I was in water over my armpits! I threw the net and bucket to the shore (and, remarkably made it) and grasped for dear life for dry land. I was alive and grateful, but never did I tell my mother of that experience. Until the day the dam was completed at Lincoln street, I would often go back to the river, and remember- with gratitude for life itself.

The house we lived in when I was six was at 318 West Morris. It was a lovely house, with a living Room which extended across the front of the house. Through one door was my parents bedroom, and through the other was the Dining Room. Beyond the Dining Room was the kitchen, with a Breakfast Nook. Down the hall from the Kitchen was our Bedroom adequate for two small boys. Except there was no central heating. In the winter, we had a large coal stove in the Dining Room. The Living Room was closed off for the season, and we lived in the rest of the house. Often, the warmth of the Kitchen was not only in the stove itself, but also in the love of my mother to cook. Her specialty was cinnamon rolls, and we devoured them with gusto.

In the evening one winter night, I was practicing my numbers as a small lad and made a marvelous discovery. I counted to 100, then 200, and suddenly realized I could go on forever. 1000 was possible, and all that lay beyond. On another night, I was looking at the newspaper and feeling mystified by the multitude of words. I was just learning to read, and my teacher, Miss Hecker, insisted we learn to "sound out" the words we did not know. I was struggling with that process,when I realized I was understanding what I was sounding out! Reading was unfolding the mystery of that multitude of words in the newspaper. From that day to now, reading has been the doorway into the world. Staying up late was not an unusual experience for this lad. My mother was fearful of the evenings alone, and my dad often worked late at the office. We enjoyed the time, but I have often thought of what insignificance a small boy would be in the event of real danger - "Home Alone" to the contrary. But it was a good time of companionship, and some of my fondest memories of my mother come out of those evenings together. We were always expectant of dad's coming home. When we would hear the old 1927 Chevrolet, with the clattering of the loose "Babbitt" bearings just around the corner we would rejoice, "Goody, goody, daddy's home!"

One night near Christmas, I was as excited as any little boy can be, and awoke early in the morning. I looked out the eastern window and saw a brightly shining star. As I was watching the star, my mother joined me, and we wondered about the star together. I remember asking her if that was the same star which had guided the wise men to Bethlehem. Her answer helped to shape my understanding of Faith when she said quite humbly, "I don't know. It may have been." The lack of certainty, yet the seriousness with which she responded to my question was enough. Through the years as a pastor, often questions have been raised for which I had only an "I don't know," yet that was enough.

The "fear of the night" had some significance in the life of my family. They were newly from a small mining town in Southwest Missouri, basically strangers to the city, and somewhat overwhelmed by it all. They were among those who did not want to risk too much in eating or drinking that which was new or unusual. When they were in Missouri, Grade A raw milk was a staple. I remember the dairy from which the milk came "down home" had a motto: "You can whip our cream, but you can't beat our milk." It was that kind of milk we wanted in Wichita as well. My parents bought good, grade A milk at the grocery, but they heard of a dairy which would deliver milk to the door, so they called and enrolled for delivery. Early one morning, my dad was suddenly awakened by the awareness of headlights in the driveway. He jumped out of sleep and out of bed yelling, "Bring back my car you thief!" As he bounded out of bed, mom grabbed him yelling, "Check! (her nickname for Chester) Get back in bed!" As she yelled, she got a good hold on his pajamas, and ripped the bottoms off. Still yelling, "Come back thief!" and looking out the window, dad saw a man standing in from of the vehicle. It turned out to be the milkman, delivering his first round of Grade A raw milk to our door. It was the last time he ever came to our house, and except for the two bottles we got free from the milkman, we went back to buying our milk from the store.

Another night experience which did not help the fears of my mother happened coming home from Church one evening. As we drove into the driveway, we saw a person wearing a long black overcoat standing just beyond our home. It was mid-summer, and the specter was forbidding. Dad pulled into the driveway, and immediately went out to confront the intruder. As he approached the Overcoated specter, he noticed a reflection in the hands of the intruder. "He has a gun!" dad shouted. Mom got out of the car, went to the front of the old Chevy, where the lights were still shining and the motor still clacking, and shouted, "Here's my purse! Don't shoot! Take it and Leave!" The mysterious intruder finally convinced my dad the object was not a gun, but rather a jar of lightning bugs. It infuriated my dad, and he chased the specter up the street to the corner. It turned out that the ghostly intruder was not a thief, but a young man who was building model airplanes, and he wanted the lightning bug tails to light his wing tips. The next day, dad was telling the harrowing experience at work, and his co-workers all began to roar with laughter. Dad was incensed and puzzled by their laughter, and it took some time before the mysteriously overcoated youth became a favorite tale of the family.

My dad was not really much of a politician. He saw those in politics as greedy and insincere. He always said he voted for the man and not the party, and I guess that was true. He first voted as a young man for Hoover, then Landon, Wilke, Dewey... But there was one Democrat who caught his attention. Dad worked hard every day, and Sunday was his only free time. We always went to Church, ate dinner at home, prepared in our warm kitchen by mother, and then after dinner, read the funny papers. His favorites were "Skippy" and "The Katzenjammer Kids." But he read them all religiously - as much so as reading to us from "Hurlbet's Bible Story Book." To this day, I still read the comics with the same religious fervor my dad did when I was a child. Following dinner, dad always took my brother and I for a walk on Sunday afternoon. I only remember that during that time together, he would faithfully quote a Democrat, Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt, wife of the president. She wrote a daily column in the paper and called it "MY DAY." Well, for my dad, the title was enough. Sunday was for him, "My Day." I suppose as much as any other thing, that shaped the sacredness of Sunday for me.

As I have indicated, the Church was very important in our lives. We were among those who went to Church every time the doors opened. That included Sunday worship, Wednesday prayer meeting, Church socials and Revivals. One such revival had an emphasis on the Second Coming of Jesus. The speaker gave us not only the assurance of its happening, but also the time. Surprisingly, it was to happen later in this same week, even before the services were scheduled to close, and we were admonished to get ready for the great happening.

On the appointed day, my parents, with our friends Everett and Alberta Lindstrom also faithful Church members who lived next door, decided to hold a "Wake" and await the foretold events of the evening. The evening was fun. Popcorn was popped, stories were told, the children, all of us, were included, and the festivities did not end until well past the close of the day past midnight. This, too, was one of those "shaping" of my own God experience. The "Second Coming" did not take place, I think hardly surprising, although perhaps somewhat disappointing, but for this young lad, it was a very important evening. I was included in the festivities, I ate the popcorn and listened to the adult conversation, I stayed up until after midnight (with Dad at home), and in my own special way, Jesus did come that night.

In those early years of my life, moving became a regular experience. By the time I was six, there were at least 6 homes in which we had lived and I could remember. When we moved in on West Morris, it was truly a dream home. As I have already indicated, there was a large living room, and a full basement, room enough for our family for years to come. It was the kind of home my parents really wanted to be their own, so when the opportunity came to buy the house, they really got excited about it. I still remember dad taking the old "box camera" out and taking pictures of the house - a way of evaluating, but also of dreaming of the day when it would be ours.

When the owner made the decision to sell the house, my parents were first on the list as possible purchasers. The price was right: He wanted $1200.00 for the house, and we knew, as a family it was worth it. The year was 1936, and the depression was still in full swing throughout the land. Our part of the world was no different. I still remember that dad made $200.00 a month, and we considered ourselves fortunate to have employment all through the depression. But the $200.00 was just enough to feed, clothe, and house a family of four persons. As we soon learned, there was always too much month left at the end of the money. No, the truth was that one of the basic principles of economics was taught to me during this period of time. "If you make a dollar, and spend ninety-nine cents, you are doing all right. If you make a dollar and spent a dollar and a penny, you are going broke. We never charged anything, and lived within comfort on what dad made. In those years, a woman would not have thought of taking a job of any kind. It really wasn't discrimination against them, it was simply that if they were to be employed, some family would be without work. That, at least, was the common social norm for the time.

Well, we needed every penny dad earned to live, and the question of the house purchase hung on how much of a down payment was needed. At that time, FHA was not yet fully in bloom, and so it was up to the folks to raise the down payment. I shall never forget the day when they admitted to each other, and to me, listening as I always did to every family discussion, that there was no way they could raise the money for a down payment. The amount needed was $100.00, and they simply did not have it.

Within three years, having moved once again, the government financing became available, and my parents built a small,900 square ft. home on South Waco. 1106 South Waco became "Our Home" where we lived for the next seven years. It was the beginning of a new world for my folks, and for us as a family. When the war started in 1941, I remember that my dad was washing the Sunday Dishes, (part of "His Day") and we were listening to the radio, when it was announced the Japanese had bombed Pearl harbor. It was one of those days remembered no matter what else happened.

Like the day Kennedy was shot. I was pastor in Goodland Kansas, and was walking into Rotary at the Local Hotel when it was announced on the radio. Or like the day of the first landing on the moon, "One small step for man, but a great step for mankind."

Well, during the washing of those dishes, my dad said, "This means War." I was fourteen by that time, but the impact on our lives was literally overwhelming. Within two years of the beginning of the Second World War, we had two other family crises. Both my grandmothers died within that two year period.

My mother's mother was 79, and full of years, but she had always been a favorite of mine. On those noisy trips to Missouri, the payoff was always to go to Grandmother's house. It was a social experience to be there. An outhouse in back provided privacy, with the historic "grape arbor" between house and outhouse. It provided part of the privacy, as well as adequate grapes for grandma to make lots of grape jelly.

Grandma's house was special for a lot of reasons. It obviously, was the "journey's end" for every vacation. It was a long time before I understood that going to Missouri was not only nostalgic, but economically one thing we could afford. But the highlight of the trip was the pantry. Immediately after all the hello kisses, I would beat it to the pantry where I knew a chocolate cake with white icing was waiting. I was never disappointed. Even in the last visit to her home, the cake was there.

Now, Grandma needs to be forgiven, which I did immediately, for leaving out the soda in that last cake she baked. I suppose the memory of the pantry is sacralized by the cake without soda. I loved to go to Grandma's. The house in which she lived was the house in which I was born: 508 Clara, Carterville, Mo. It was also the house where my mother and dad were married, and where they spent their "honeymoon night."

The story is told that on that night, following the wedding, and the departure of the few guests, my dad was visiting with grandma, when mom entered the room decked out in her beautiful wedding nightgown. As she gracefully stepped into the room, full of pride and self-consciousness, she had the fullness of grace as she farted long and loud. My dad loved it, but mom never forgave him for telling that story publicly. Just for the sake of memory, the house had a feather bed fold away divan on which I loved to sleep - following a fair amount of wrestling with my cousin Gail, there was the pantry, which following grandma's death was spoiled by putting a bathroom in that space. There was also a pump on the back porch - except by the time I was old enough to fetch the water, the city had put in a line, and there was no pump, only a handle to open. It was still a special treat to go out and bring in the water.

Going to Grandma's was not just going to grandma's. At one time I had in the little town where I was born some 45 relatives. One of the vacation highlights was dinner at the park in nearby Carthage with all the relatives present. They all talked at the same time and nobody listened. I remember attending my Uncle Frank's funeral and the family all sat up all night. (It was really a wake, but it was not called that in the family.) I still remember the conversation. Again, everyone was talking and nobody was listening. That is, until my mother stood up (she was barely 5' tall) and began to explain what happened when the saints died. The whole family asked questions, and mom did well in responding. Her faith and knowledge of the Bible was such that she could go for hours on the subject of death and its consequences. It was about the only subject she could do that well on, but I always was proud of her courage with her family.

Funerals were always special. They were just like the vacations. Dinner on the grounds, lots of playing and lots of conversation. I can still remember my dad sitting on Aunt Ruby's front porch, talking to Uncle Earl, Uncle Ed, Homer (a cousin) and whoever else was around. Their conversations were about work, money, baseball (the St. Louis Cardinals) and stories about family. I loved to listen when they would visit, and so instead of playing, I would sit on the porch and listen to the stories.

Dad had lots of stories of his childhood. His family was dirt poor, his dad was a miner in the lead mines, and had no status at any place in his life. Dad would tell about the house at four corners, and how "modern" it was. It was four rooms and a "path." Dad used to brag about having running water: He and his three sisters had the task of "running" to the creek and bringing the bucket back to the house.

Dad said they were so poor that every year they re-did their house. They repapered all the walls in the house with the Joplin Globe, the local newspaper. When dad graduated from the eighth grade, he said all the boys in the class got new clothing for the graduation: A new suit, new shirt, new tie, etc. Dad was privileged to have new patches on his overalls.

When I was an adult, I went with my dad back to Webb City to see the Methodist Church. By this time, I was a successful pastor, and knew that the Church we were looking through could easily have been one I could have served. As I wandered through the Church I noticed the light bulbs still hanging on a chord from the socket in the ceiling, with pull chains on every light. This was typical of the classrooms, and i thought, "If I were pastor, I would want to engage in a major remodeling program." All I could see was the beauty that had been present 50 years previously when the building had been donated by Mr. Webb, one of the early wealthy miners. But little had been done since to improve on Christian Education. Suddenly, my dad, out of his usual quietness, said something which changed the focus of my life and ministry. He said, "I wish I could have gone to Church here when I was a boy." It shocked me, as I asked, "Why didn't you?" And he replied, "We were too poor." He often joked about his childhood poverty, but in that moment I knew the pain which was his for having not had anything of this world's privileges aa a child.

Later, one of the stories he told was about being a Southerner in Webb City. Although the Methodist Church was Southern, for him, being a Southerner was not a privilege. There was a family in town who had served in the Northern Army, and received a pension in their old age. His family had no such support as former South Supporters. It was not a bitterness. Just an awareness of the discrepancy in society. Later, when I was a rambunctious older grade school lad, I was singing one day one of those crazy songs kids sing. It was about coughing up "green oysters" and "wallowing them round on your tongue." I thought it funny until dad, hearing my song, quietly said, "My father, as a miner developed tuberculosis, and died of the disease about which you sing." It was all he ever said, and I never sang that one, or one like it again.

Dad had a way of expressing his life. We were visiting the school he attended and from which he graduated with his new patches, when I asked him, "Did you go to high school?" His response was, "Yes, I went clear through High School. In the front door, and out the back." Yet, dad was an intelligent man, and took continuing education (not called that yet) all through his life. Schooling was important in our family. It was never questioned that we would all graduate from High School, and all go to college. Education has always been, because of his spirit, a noble privilege for me, and for my children, and our entire family.

		This document maintained by melshort@stroxel.com.
		For permission to use material from Mel Short's website:

Accessed  times since 6/25/98