Camp Meetings, Billy Goats, and Fingernail Polish

The church of my childhood might have been slightly conservative. At least some perceived it that way. My father was a minister in the Rocky Mountain District of said church and, as is typical of preacher’s kids, I may have a slanted view concerning some events.

During the yearly camp meeting sponsored by our district, I created memories that I can still recall in detail. As kids and teenagers, we always had fun during camp. Probably that was not the purpose of the gathering, but, realistically, that’s what happened.

No doubt it was with the thought in mind of making camp meeting a blessing to the kids that someone came up with the idea of engaging a “children’s worker” to provide afternoon sessions for a bunch of squirming children who wanted to be outside enjoying the Colorado sunshine. I’m sure the blessing actually came to my parents who were privileged to have the afternoon free of their own brood, and everyone else’s as well.

I recall quite well one husband and wife “Children’s Evangelists” team. I don’t remember them just because the Missis wore the longest dresses and darkest hosiery I had ever seen, but also because of some of the things they taught us. One song they taught us went:

            A Billy Goat chews on papers and rags,

            Smacks his chops on an old tin can.

            But there’s one thing that a Billy won’t do

            And that’s on a cud of tobacco chew.        

Truly a blessing! I wonder if it could be used now as a “praise chorus?” (We didn’t have any drums and had to make do with a piano, but, who knows, it might work!)

In addition to this little ditty, I remember one lesson presented by long dress, dark hose lady. She talked about pride and the manifestation of such in the evil practice of wearing fingernail polish. Her information had it that women don’t wear nail polish because it’s pretty, but rather because dirt resides beneath the tips of their nails. Of course, the lazy way to get rid of dirt is to hide it. So, like sweeping dirt under a rug, ladies put on bright red nail polish.

This morning as I got ready to go to church, I was, after all of these years, faced with the practical application of this lesson. I’ve been packing for three weeks. My hands are rough and my nails are short. No matter how much I tried, I could not get the tips of my nails to look anything but a mess. So, like the lesson suggested, pride won and ugly is now coated with red.

Clipart from: Free ClipArt Now

Comedy of Errors – Or Not!

During the past almost eight years, I’ve learned much from hospital experiences. Some things good. Some not so good.

This past week the device that has resided in Hubby’s chest for the past six years was replaced. This is a so-called “simple procedure with an easy recovery.” He is recovering well, but the hospital experience itself was interesting, at best.

Hubby was prepped and ready to roll out to surgery in what he considered to be a very uncomfortable bed (FYI son-in-law, Michael, it was not a Stryker®). The heart surgeon arrived, looked at the chart she was holding, and remarked to him, “I’m looking at your chart here and I don’t understand why we are changing out your device.” Then she quoted to him the device reading from the chart.

Perplexed Hubby, tubes protruding from his body, gave her a puzzled look. Fortunately, the problem was quickly solved when the technician from the device manufacturer gave the surgeon the reading he was getting. Surprised, the doctor looked again at the chart in her hand and exclaimed, “I have the March 2012 report.”

Oops! 

Minutes later, two people arrived to take Hubby to surgery. He (and I) wanted his hearing aids to stay with me for safe keeping. They wanted them left in so they could talk to him. They won.

Now, fast-forward to the waiting room where the heart surgeon is letting me know that all went well and Hubby is being made comfortable. She said someone would let me know when he was settled and I could go to the room. Past experience informed me that this would never happen. So, after ten minutes, I made my way to his room. He was alone, had his covers thrown back, and was desperately searching the bed. Never mind that he wasn’t supposed to be moving around. He could only focus on one thing. His left hearing aid was missing. I rested his head back on the pillow and took over the quest. I was unsuccessful.

The word “distress” can’t begin to describe Hubby’s state of mind. Not only can he now not hear with his left ear, but those tiny devices cost roughly $1,000 an ounce. He dislikes throwing away money.

Eventually, someone arrived from surgery with the hearing aid cradled in a piece of gauze. It seems that at some point during surgery it had fallen out of Hubby’s ear, and was placed on a side counter only to have its existence forgotten.

After a six-hour stay, we were done with the place and prepared for our trip home. The nurse provided discharge papers, we read and signed them, and we departed.

Once home, I realized the discharge papers did not include pain management instructions. However, Hubby was sure I need not worry because, to his surprise and delight, he had no pain. I argued that he was still “under the influence” and proposed getting Extra Strength Tylenol®. He swore he wouldn’t take this medication because he read that it was recalled for some reason. And, of course, he was fine anyway.

Fast-forward once again to 2:00 a.m. Hubby has located the Ibuprofen that hangs around only because it gets an occasional nod from my bad knee. I won’t let him take it and again offer to go to the pharmacy for Tylenol. Once again, he proclaims that he won’t take that medication.

I could have called the heart clinic, but I already have the message memorized. (Paraphrased): Not an emergency – leave name and phone number and the call will be returned during office hours. Emergency – go the hospital emergency room.

Morning arrives and Hubby emails daughter, Joanne, who is a nurse. She assures him that Tylenol is fine and tells him the dosage to take. He obviously trusts her medical advice more than he trusts mine.

Hubby saw his cardiologist today. I knew he would report that everything went fine. I didn’t even ask.

Trouble maker stayed in the waiting room - lips zipped.

Revivals, Evangelists, and Other Memories

The mind makes strange connections. One of these connections happened for me when a picture emailed by our daughter-in-law, Nancy, triggered memories of my childhood and of revivals that were held twice a year in the churches where my father served as pastor.

By way of explanation, for those unfortunate souls who do not understand the “good old days,” revivals were orchestrated attempts to re-save church attendees and, hopefully, redeem a heathen or two (or so it seemed to me as a child). Back in the day, a revival was a two-week series of services, inclusive of three Sundays. An evangelist (aka itinerant minister) delivered the sermons for each of the eighteen services.

It’s possible (maybe even probable) that minister’s kids have totally different memories of revivals than do church members. In those days, the evangelist, who generally came from some distance away, stayed in the home of the local pastor. This meant that some preacher’s kid (PK) gave up his/her room for the duration. At our house, that was me. I have to assume this happened because, being the least messy, my room was easier to ready for company. (I concede, before being challenged, that my siblings may have a different view regarding this topic.)

Mom was a great cook and slaved over a hot stove to ensure three well-balanced meals each day during revivals. Of course, church members pitched in by demonstrating 101 ways to use gelatin. I could have handled 101 ways to fix cherries, but the gelatin concoctions were sometimes a little much. Non-PKs may be unaware of this fact, but gelatin is not only a base for salads and desserts, but also for main dishes. Think tomato aspic.

So what was the picture that brought my past to mind? It was a picture of great-granddaughter, Emma, on a carousel. Some of my revival memories include being tardy for school and suffering the consequences because the evangelist needed to pray around the world during morning devotions, having to be quiet because someone was in a testy mood or needed an afternoon nap, getting to bed very late on ten school nights in a row because every “altar call” song had to be exhausted before the final amen of the evening, and wearing long stockings, even to play on Saturday, because you-know-who might disapprove of little girls’ bare legs.

The rare exception to these and other like experiences occurred when Dad pastored a church in Canon City, CO.  I don’t know the first name of the evangelist but his last name was Bennett. Rev. Bennett liked kids. He even had some of his own back home and he apparently missed them. In the afternoons after school I would listen to his stories and watch as he illustrated them on paper. I was fascinated by the story of “The Little Engine That Could” and the pencil drawings of the struggles of the tiny engine as it attempted to reach the top of the steep mountain, all the while chanting, “I think I can; I think I can.” Finally, I felt the engine’s elation as it raced down the other side of the hill.

On the second Saturday Rev. Bennett stayed in our home he initiated a trip to the park in Pueblo that had a carousel. There, he lifted me onto a painted horse, inserted a nickel, and for the first time in my life I glided up and down while circling to the rhythm of unfamiliar music. Loved that revival!

Emma Ruth riding the carousel while grandma, Nancy Powers, watches.

Moving

Colorado has been my home at two different times in my life for a total of twenty-two years. In a little over five weeks a moving truck will once again be at our door and I will move away from this place that I love.

I will miss the beautiful mountains, the wildlife in our condo complex, and the many fun activities including: the parades (Christmas, rodeo, and Veteran’s Day); the Pikes Peak or Bust Rodeo; the street breakfast; the Seven Falls at Christmastime; walks in the Garden of the Gods; the views of Pikes Peak and the Garden of the Gods from our decks; trips to Estes Park, Breckinridge, and Grand Junction; shopping in Denver; wonderful friends; and the cool, dry summers.

I have taken hundreds of pictures during the past eight years. I share just a few here (including Christmastime in our condo).

We will soon be in a new home in Olathe, Kansas, and I will remember:

A house is bricks and wooden beams,

A home is made of love and dreams.  © V4C

Oh The Things We Save

Once again, I’m packing. I thought when we moved to Colorado that would be my final time to pack. But, alas, Hubby is not enamored with the place I called home during my childhood and teen years.

Prior to the start of packing, I made some hard decisions. No more moving of things we don’t use and no more taking up of space with “stuff.”

Regarding stuff, last week I found some things that I had rescued from my parent’s attic while we were getting their house ready to sell. These very precious items were from my childhood. At the time it seemed important to keep them. Now, not so much.

My big sixth grade accomplishment was to win an art contest and have my pencil drawing displayed at the Colorado Springs Fine Arts Center. Yep, you’ve got it – that was one of the priceless things kept in the attic. The title of this 12” X 18” mounted (well, semi-mounted now) treasure is, “The Llama.”

Verla Lacy  Age 11 

Grade 6Y

Palmer School 

               

Detail: Head of “The Llama”

The second treasure I rescued was a booklet of poems I made for Mother’s Day during third grade.

Cover: MOTHER’S DAY at the top, TO MOTHER amidst the flowers.

The first poem (aka cursive writing exercise) was about Mother’s Day. I am relatively certain Mrs. Hodgekinson cared more about cursive than she did our mothers. But I digress. My poem went as follows:

Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day is here

And Mothers’ so dear

So now on my tree

May blossoms I see.

When May flowers come

The huming birds hum

Mother’s Day is here

Mother’s Day so dear

                                    by

                                            Verla Ruth Lacy

This rhyming little nothing clearly indicates that I had no idea it was my mother who should be honored rather than the day.

The second page has a poem about Spring. My concrete thinking processes served me well here.

Spring

Spring, Spring, Spring is here

Joy is gay and clear

The birds are singing

And their chirps ringing.

Spring, Spring, Spring is here

A happy Spring day

The sun’s very bright

And clouds very light.

                                    by

                                             Verla Ruth Lacy

Off to do more packing today.

And throw some of these “treasures” away!

(William Wordsworth, move over. I still have that rhyming thing going.)

FYI younger generation: Gay used to mean bright and lively. (See Spring poem.)

My Mother, The French Chef

Morrell was my mother’s family name, a surname of French origin. Her given name, Vera, is not French, but rather a Slavic name meaning “Faith.” In Latin it means “Truth.” (A very fitting name for her, I might add.) Had my grandparents been more in touch with their roots, they could have kept the initial, “V” but named her a French name such as Victore, Vivien, or Veronique.

The French in Mom was evidenced by one of her cooking skills, namely, the making of roux. Long before cooking shows and recipes peppered with French vocabulary ruled the world of cookery, Mom made roux. The fact that she didn’t call it roux was no doubt because of her lack of familiarity with the French language. She simply called it, “thickener.”

Mom made all kinds of roux: butter and flour roux for the White Sauce (Béchamel Sauce to the French) used in scalloped potatoes and soups; pan drippings and flour roux for fried chicken or fried pork chop gravy, shortening and flour roux for pot roast gravy; bacon grease and flour roux for gravy to put over our biscuits.

While I was growing up, gravies of all kinds were a regular part of the menu at our house. This has made me wonder why the kids in our family were not extremely obese. I’ve decided that was because Mom cooked with simple thickener rather than that fattening French roux. Just a theory!

Little Roux kids with their parents in Bladen, Nebraska (1938). Little sis came along nine years later

Roux kids all grown up (2006). Ilene, David, & Vee