our first hymn. It was often âOh, Come to the Church in the Wildwood.â We would all ârareâ back and sing at the top of our lungs, for we put more stock in volume than in modulation for praising God. When we came to the chorus, Porter Kellison and Grandpa Will would come in strong on the bass: âOh come, come, come, come,â and the great deep âcomesâ would roll out the open door as though calling all the world home.
My Grandpa Will could read the old shaped notes in the hymnbook for, way back, he and Mama and Grandma Susan had all gone to Singing School. GrandpaWill said family prayers, and said grace at the table three times a day. He gave money to the church, helped keep the building repaired, and read his Bible. He believed that when we all died, we would meet again in Heaven: he and his father and mother, his six brothers and two sisters, all their children and grandchildren, and all the kin and neighbor folk, gathered together where Jesus had gone to prepare a place with golden stairs and no sin nor sorrow nor parting. Grandpa Will would lift up his head, and his blue eyes would look far away as he sang: âYes, we'll gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river / Gather with the Saints at the river that flows by the throne of God.â
The summer I was eleven, we held a daily Vacation Bible School for the little children at the Lower Church. It was a new thing and a lady came in from way-off to hold the school. Hiram Barns, who lived in a neat painted cottage just above the village and was active in church, had helped with all the plans. The lady's name was Miss Virginia, and Mr. and Mrs. Barns had her to stay with them and fixed their spare room all nice for her. Since I was a big girl then, I helped Miss Virginia with her teaching. She had colored paper and crayons for the little kids, and new songs to teach, and alittle play to put on. I went down to the church every morning, and I loved Miss Virginia. She had a nice soft voice and curly hair and wore lace on her white blouse. I read to the little kids and helped them with their songs. Miss Virginia let me take them outdoors, where we sat in a circle on the grass near the graveyard, and I read them stories about Jesus. The children got to take their pictures home, and on the last day Miss Virginia had a program so all the mothers could come to see.
When Miss Virginia told us good-bye, I almost cried and could think of no one else for a week. Later, we began to hear things about her. It turned out that Miss Virginia had gone away and written a bad story about us in a church magazine. Hiram Barns was a subscriber to the magazine; and when it came, there was a story about the community of Sâââ, by Miss Virginia. In the story she told how it was up in the mountains, how ignorant and crude the people were. She told about Hiram Barns's house and made fun of it and of how Mrs. Barns dipped snuff. Hiram Barns passed the magazine all around the neighborhood, and we all read what Miss Virginia thought about us. I felt sorrow and disillusionment, and, for the first time, I began to wonder about the people beyond Swago Crick.
For all the years of my childhood, our little neighborhood centered on the store, the schoolhouse, and the church, and the narrow roads and paths that ran up and down. Once every summer, we went down to the little railroad flag stop and took the one coach train to town to visit our relatives there. Still our village pattern held, and we walked down over the hill to the store or up Dry Crick to the church night-meetings. Coming home with our lantern through Uncle Dan'l's woodland, we could sometimes hear the small animals scrambling off in the woods or see a piece of foxfire shining at us from an old, rotten log. When we went through the gate at the barn, I always felt the peg set solid in the haymow door, and then old Jack or Shep would begin to bark, and I could see the panes of
My Grandpa Will could read the old shaped notes in the hymnbook for, way back, he and Mama and Grandma Susan had all gone to Singing School. GrandpaWill said family prayers, and said grace at the table three times a day. He gave money to the church, helped keep the building repaired, and read his Bible. He believed that when we all died, we would meet again in Heaven: he and his father and mother, his six brothers and two sisters, all their children and grandchildren, and all the kin and neighbor folk, gathered together where Jesus had gone to prepare a place with golden stairs and no sin nor sorrow nor parting. Grandpa Will would lift up his head, and his blue eyes would look far away as he sang: âYes, we'll gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river / Gather with the Saints at the river that flows by the throne of God.â
The summer I was eleven, we held a daily Vacation Bible School for the little children at the Lower Church. It was a new thing and a lady came in from way-off to hold the school. Hiram Barns, who lived in a neat painted cottage just above the village and was active in church, had helped with all the plans. The lady's name was Miss Virginia, and Mr. and Mrs. Barns had her to stay with them and fixed their spare room all nice for her. Since I was a big girl then, I helped Miss Virginia with her teaching. She had colored paper and crayons for the little kids, and new songs to teach, and alittle play to put on. I went down to the church every morning, and I loved Miss Virginia. She had a nice soft voice and curly hair and wore lace on her white blouse. I read to the little kids and helped them with their songs. Miss Virginia let me take them outdoors, where we sat in a circle on the grass near the graveyard, and I read them stories about Jesus. The children got to take their pictures home, and on the last day Miss Virginia had a program so all the mothers could come to see.
When Miss Virginia told us good-bye, I almost cried and could think of no one else for a week. Later, we began to hear things about her. It turned out that Miss Virginia had gone away and written a bad story about us in a church magazine. Hiram Barns was a subscriber to the magazine; and when it came, there was a story about the community of Sâââ, by Miss Virginia. In the story she told how it was up in the mountains, how ignorant and crude the people were. She told about Hiram Barns's house and made fun of it and of how Mrs. Barns dipped snuff. Hiram Barns passed the magazine all around the neighborhood, and we all read what Miss Virginia thought about us. I felt sorrow and disillusionment, and, for the first time, I began to wonder about the people beyond Swago Crick.
For all the years of my childhood, our little neighborhood centered on the store, the schoolhouse, and the church, and the narrow roads and paths that ran up and down. Once every summer, we went down to the little railroad flag stop and took the one coach train to town to visit our relatives there. Still our village pattern held, and we walked down over the hill to the store or up Dry Crick to the church night-meetings. Coming home with our lantern through Uncle Dan'l's woodland, we could sometimes hear the small animals scrambling off in the woods or see a piece of foxfire shining at us from an old, rotten log. When we went through the gate at the barn, I always felt the peg set solid in the haymow door, and then old Jack or Shep would begin to bark, and I could see the panes of
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