Church Memories

    As I sit here this morning, in the early part of the day, I find it funny which moments of a prior life come through the mist of history to stick in my mind. An example:

   One Sunday afternoon, not too far back, Carolyn and I drove downtown just to look around on a day when there was little traffic, neither automotive nor pedestrian. 

   Parking in the area of the courthouse, we walked the sidewalks of that part of downtown, trying to remember what buildings had been where and what they looked like. Some were gone completely, some partially intact, and some still as I remembered them.

   I had spent a good amount of time in that area around the 1912 courthouse, mainly because the church our family attended was right across 8th Street from it. Situated at the corner of Georgia Avenue and 8th Street was The First Christian Church, an area that is now a parking lot and garage.

   The parking garage and deck is not much of a landmark these days, but the stone steeple that was part of the First Methodist, across Georgia Avenue, is still standing. First Methodist merged with Centenary Methodist which was just a block or so to the east on McCallie. 

   Thinking back this morning, several miscellaneous images come to my mind. I remember the inside of the sanctuary, the baptistry on the left side down near the front where I was baptized as a preteen after completing the Pastor's Class. 

   I remember what the pulpit area looked like with the choir loft situated behind it. And I remembered an embarrassing moment when, as a teenager leading a youth service, I got ahead of myself, getting up from a pulpit chair to read my part, looking out over a congregation that seemed amused, and realizing as I turned to sit back down, after the reading, that I had gotten up too soon, and that the singers standing behind me had been ready to present a song, but had to wait in place until I finished. Why is it that moments like that are indelible?

   I also remember Christmas in that church. Not so much the serious part of the Christmas tradition, but Santa appearing in the fellowship hall under the sanctuary, handing out bags of candy and fruit to all the kids. Also performances by the kids, including a duet by my younger brother David and I, "Up On The Housetop", which, knowing my vocal prowess today, must have been a hoot. 

   One more incident sticks out. Our family was always there for services. One Sunday, after a snowfall the  Saturday night before, my mother was driving our car to church. Why my father was not along that morning is unclear, perhaps he had to work, but, regardless, here we were driving down McCallie Avenue toward church. Approaching the viaduct over the railroad tracks, we were chugging along, I believe in our 1941 Chevy, when we started up the east side of the viaduct, slid on the snow, made a UTurn without moving the steering wheel, and proceeded back east, from which direction we had just come. Without missing a beat, and with little drama, we drove back home, arriving safely to spend the morning on the couch reading. 

   At some point in the early 50s, the church built a new complex out on McCallie Avenue across from the University of Chattanooga, now UTC.

   Where it resides today.

   I spent most of my teen years in this new church, until I went off to college in Knoxville.

   Stories for another day.

Memory Lane

    My Mother was a collector. Not that the collected items would bring much money on the antique market. She did not have an original Babe Ruth baseball card, but she did tend to keep mementoes from her children's beginnings.

   She had all of my grade school report cards, the ones that had my teachers names and the grades of each of the areas of study as well as deportment grades. They are not to be shown in this space for obvious reasons.

   One small collection that brought back memories from a bunch of years back was a small stack of poorly written postcards from camp by her oldest son. 

   Yours truly...

   As near as I can figure, it was 1948. The summer after my 6th grade year at Sunnyside School. A good time to be alive. It was my first camp experience.

   The elementary cursive on the hastily written postcard stock told of a boy, away from home for two weeks, who had a problem with his family's response to his plight. I can remember it to this day. For a solid week this preteen had faithfully written home every day, but, even as others in his cabin received letters and cards at mail call, his name was not called.

   Now, lest you be upset at his parents for not writing in his time of need, they were due to visit him on that weekend between the two camp weeks. And they showed up as expected.

   The man-child was not happy, and his parents asked about his mood. When he explained about their supposed lack of concern, they were quick to apologize and promise to do better the second week. 

   Which they did.

   And peace was restored.

   Now that was not such a big deal. Seems like the parent's week had sped by busily, and they knew they would see him on the weekend. After all he was only 30 miles up the road, and camp was fun, wasn't it?

   A small item in one's life, right?

   Looking back on it from 2021, it was, but evidently not to a 12 year old.

   Those old cards did bring back a lot of memories and Carolyn and I decided to check out the YMCA camp on Lake Ocoee. It was Monday and our only chore was to make our weekly visit to Publix, so we went on north and east.

   The first landmark of the camp, Sugarloaf "Mtn", comes into sight as we drive the back roads of Polk County off US  Highway 64 out of Cleveland toward North Carolina. I have climbed it several times since those camp days, and it hardly fits the description of Mountain. Hill maybe, but not much larger.

   Camp Ocoee was begun back in 1923 and will celebrate 100 years in the camping business in 2023.

   So it has been 70+ years since I took that first icy plunge off the dock and into Lake Ocoee. Technically this is Parksville Reservoir, a lake created by the construction of a dam on the Ocoee River. Ocoee Dam No. 1 was opened in 1911 by the Tennessee Valley Authority.

   So much had changed since I had last visited the camp property back in 1958. This was at a weekend reunion of the adults and kids of families who had participated in Family Camp, a time when families rented cabins, ate their meals together in the dining hall, played sports, swam, and socialized together under the auspices of the Y. I can remember that year's reunion in 1958 because it was the weekend of the University of Chattanooga Mocs vs Tennessee Volunteers football game in Knoxville. The Mocs were usually cannon fodder for the Vols, but not in 1958, when the Vols were upset on their home field 14-6. Yours truly was a senior at UT at the time, and took much heat from the Chattanooga citizens.

   Jump ahead to 2021. The dining hall, home to many happy memories, great meals, slew (slough) juice, songs and skits. Just families enjoying each other's company for a couple of weeks.

   All that was left of the old dining hall. A new one replaced it on a lake plot south of the original camp. That old dining hall bell called us to many happy times. As a hungry boy its call had much appeal.

   The main road from the dining hall down to the lake front was lined with cabins. Originally the cabins were small, but the later ones had room for more campers and staff.

   The field where the camp offices were built was our softball field. You are looking from the home plate area toward left field. A strong hitter could propel the ball out of the field and up onto the side of the hill into the woods that sloped down to the playing area. Many a game was played here, both in the days when cabins played each other and at a later time for me when the adults joined in. With enough teenagers in Family Camp it would be the adults versus the young people. Mostly we won.

   Y camp was not all fun and games. There was a serious aspect. It was a Christian Camp, with vespers each evening, and church on Sunday at both the kids camp and the Family Camp.

   An aside: the families who came to the Family Camp were members of several churches in the Chattanooga area. Not only members, but lay leaders both in church, its denomination, and in the civic and business life of Chattanooga. We kids enjoyed and learned from men and women who took their Christianity seriously.

   One memory stands out in my mind, probably because it was out of my 12 year old's comfort zone growing up. There were no bathroom facilities in the cabins, so we trudged through the woods to what I remember as being a 4-hole outhouse. It was the first experience of this shy lad sitting in a latrine with 3 others. A bit uncomfortable at first, but commonplace after a few days or weeks. (Sorry, no picture. This structure was long gone.)

   Carolyn and I were fortunate that then camp director, B.J. Davis was in the office when we arrived, and he spent several minutes giving us the history of the camp before turning us loose to explore on our own. 

   It is fun to look back, and surprising too, when things that you had not thought of for years (maybe 70 or so), come rattling out of your subconscious.

   I'm happy I got the chance to relive so many happy times, and the chance to actually walk the same paths of long ago.

   It was, and is, a great place to be.

Baskets at Easter Time

    Before the time that this little boy knew anything about the real Easter story of tombs and resurrection, the big thing was an Easter basket, filled with colored eggs and perhaps some goodies. 

   Today this basket sits on a piece of furniture in a house that knew not this child. It is not filled with bright colors and chocolate, but holds a picture of a teenager in a uniform, and an old belt. My Mom and Dad (in the picture to the left) would be happy it is still used and on display.

   But the basket brings back memories of Easter on Tunnel Boulevard, where, even in the Great Depression and the beginnings of WWII, surprises and laughter filled the house and yard.

   Notice the basket in the pictures below..

   This child is looking for hidden eggs in a flower garden, If my memory serves me well, this small colorful garden sat next to a fence between 207 and 209 where the Mansfield family lived. Mr. Mansfield must have passed away, because the family last name changed to Perkins later. 

   This boy holds the same basket with eggs as he stands in the snow on a cold Easter Sunday. There is a story here, a story with all the elements of a regular Easter, but with the hazardous condition that the eggs cannot be hidden in the snow. Two reason emerge for this hazard:

      1. The snow is deep and the eggs once released from the basket sink to the bottom and out of sight.

      2. The footsteps of the hiding person lead to the spot every time.

   Where is all the suspense and fun in that?

   So we come to a logical conclusion, hide the eggs in the house.

   The eggs are counted, then hidden inside 207, then found with happiness.

   But there is one missing. No one can remember where the hiding place was. One egg is lost in the house. 

   A couple of weeks later a strange pungent odor is noticed. It smells of sulphur. Noses lead to a small table with a closed lid.

   There is the missing egg in all its glorious smell.

   That Easter was the last one where eggs were hidden in the house.

   That Easter basket has seen a lot of years. It has resided in several houses in several states. It has been used for a lot of different things and held by several tiny hands. 

   Today it holds memories of the past.

   It is also empty, just like the Easter tomb, but if you listen closely you can hear the Hope of the ages.

   CHRIST IS RISEN

   HE IS RISEN INDEED

   Amen and Amen