He gave me two nickels, and I headed for the bank. “Grandpa, I would save one and spend the other.” It was our personal ritual. In due time, my grandfather would say, “Melvin, if I gave you two nickels, what would you do with them?” I knew the answer. But I always got to the Collins and Sweat Ford shop where my Grandfather West worked well before 3, when the bank closed. When we arrived in town, Dad let me out at the east end of town, and I visited friends and businesses along Main Street.
Going-to-town day was very special for me, and I always took the little black “bank book” my Grandpa West had given me. In the winter, I also sold gutted rabbits to city restaurants. In cold weather, we took the furs from animals that I had caught. Once a week, our family went to Golden City to sell eggs and cream, and purchase needed items with our earnings. I still drive, walk a mile a day and tend a big garden. I’ve never touched cigarettes, alcoholic beverages or harmful drugs. Throughout my life, I have applied the logic of that discussion, along with my church’s teaching that our body is God's holy temple. “Third,” he said, “it will destroy your health and may kill you.” I had seen folks sick with lip cancer and lung disease and did not want that. “Second,” he said, “it is a nasty habit.” I had seen spittoons and cigar and cigarette butts all around, and I did not want to litter the world. My common sense told me I did not want to spend that kind of money. “First, it is an expensive habit.” He had figured out what it would cost me to smoke a pack a day the rest of my life. You will have to decide whether you will or not. On one visit, my Grandpa Bawbell said, “Melvin, you are 12 years old. Bless this meal to its intended use and us in thy service.” (Barbara and I met at the Methodist-related Hendrix Hall in Columbia, Missouri, 80 years ago, and used that blessing at our first meal as a married couple - and continue to do so.) My grandfather's table grace was, “Our Father, we are thankful for this expression of your goodness to us. If we went there, my folks would stop by their church, three blocks away, and let my brother, Olin, and me ride to their farm in their Model A Ford. My Grandfather and Grandmother Bawbell were Presbyterians and lived on a farm six miles from town. I realize now that the great food was less important than the mentoring received. Each Sunday after church, we usually went to a grandparent’s home for dinner. The first line of my memoir states, “No child ever born upon this earth had a more idyllic childhood than did I.” Everyone worked together to prepare me for a worthy life. Indeed, I felt as if I were standing on holy ground, in God’s house and surrounded by goodness and love. I cannot overemphasize the feeling I had as a child and young adult. Promptly at 11, the church bell rang, the doors to the basement opened, and the choir and pastor marched in singing “Holy, Holy, Holy.” Worshippers stood and joined in. The rule - from Habakkuk 2:20 - was: “The Lord is in his holy temple let all the earth be silent before him.” The choir gathered in the basement, and the sanctuary began to fill. People went into the basement or outdoors to chat. Sunday school attendance, usually around 90, was put on the wall “scoreboard.”Īt 10:45, the sanctuary went silent, except for the pianist playing music to encourage quiet contemplation. In quick succession, each class reported their attendance and a one-sentence lesson summary. A side room served youth classes, and the sanctuary held two adult classes. Sunday school began at 9:30, with a basement full of children. The rule was, “Wear the best you have, as long as it is clean and mended.” To be in the “house of the Lord” for worship meant Dad in suit and tie, Mom in her best dress and gloves, and my brother and I in our Sunday clothes of the season. Sunday morning was a flurry of finishing chores, shutting off the windmill and dressing in our Sunday best. Saturdays were spent getting ready for church, doing chores in advance, putting down hay early, taking baths, making certain clothes were ready, cooking food ahead of time, and, of course, studying our Sunday school lessons. One could not think of one without considering the other two. That began a life lived under the trinity of family, farm and church. Two weeks later, my parents presented me - wearing a gown made by my Presbyterian grandmother - to the congregation of the Golden City Methodist Church and signed my name on the cradle roll.
Boone pulled me into visible existence in the southeast bedroom of our farm home eight miles from Golden City, Missouri. I first entered a Methodist church building in the autumn of 1923, in my mother's womb. The opinion pieces reflect a variety of viewpoints and are the opinions of the writers, not the UM News staff. UM News publishes various commentaries about issues in the denomination.
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