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.
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