Vacation Bible School 3

I dutifully saved the Vacation Church School post cards from the childhood years that I attended. Although we called the two-week event “Bible School,” the post cards use the expression “Church School.”

Postal Card from the Methodist Chuirch in Pine Village, Indiana, 1964

In my first year, Mrs. Clarence Weyls* was the teacher, and the co-directors were Mrs. Tom Builta and Mrs. Robert Davis. The teacher in my second year was Mrs. Enoch Freeman. In my third year, the teachers were Joyce and Betsy, and Mrs. Jack Summers was the superintendent. (Joyce may have been Joyce Snedeker, and Betsy may have been Betsy Builta.) Mrs. Leo Mann was the teacher in my fourth year. In my fifth year, Mrs. Leo Mann and Mrs. Amos Speck were the teachers. (As I recall, Mr. Speck had passed away not long before.) Mrs. Builta was the director.

One of the Large Certificates Awarded Prior to the Postal Cards

I well remember all of the women named on the post cards. They had such distinctive personalities!

Mrs. Clarence Weyls, with the first name of Grace, was named appropriately. She was only a few years younger than my grandmother, and she had a gracious outlook. Mrs. Tom Builta, whose first name was Elizabeth, spoke with a southern accent; she was as welcoming as she could possibly be. Mrs. Robert Davis, whose first name was Joan, took a friendly interest in the achievements of each kid! Mrs. Jack Summers, whose first name was Beulah, was accommodating and kind; she and her husband ran the church camp ground. Mrs. Leo Mann, whose first name is Marilyn, had a lively, artistic personality that I appreciated. Mrs. Amos Speck, whose first name was Erma, carried herself with a regal bearing; she treated everyone with her trademark serenity.

I wonder if the staff members knew what profound effects they were having on children—even if for only a dozen days annually. In those years, I became oriented toward the future that I now occupy.

My mother often warned me that, even though events might be unfolding smoothly for the time being, the vicissitudes of life might well be visited upon me in the future. When such tough times came, she said, I would need to rely on my faith, for, without faith, circumstances could seem overwhelming. Now that I have discovered many potholes in the proverbial road of life, I understand—and fully appreciate—what my mother taught me. Further, I can see clearly that the women of the Methodist Church—with their larger-than-life personalities—encouraged me to remain faithful through every bump along the way. Am I thankful to them? Yes, indeed!

__________________

*With names, I am following the social conventions of the time. Married women usually were called by their last names with the title “Mrs.” in front, as in Mrs. Rhode. Customarily, they could be named for their husbands, as in “Mrs. Joe Rhode.” Now and then, they might be called by their first name, as in “Mrs. Ida Rhode.” Seldom in broader social contexts would they have been designated by their first and last names, as in “Ida Rhode,” or by their first name only, as in “Ida.” Of course, in informal conversation, the first name alone would have been employed, as when a friend of Ida’s was chatting with her. I mention these matters, as I have no interest in writing anything that might seem politically tinged; I am merely recalling names as they were constructed at the time.

  

Vacation Bible School 2

After the Korean War (1950–1953), the country settled into a pattern of peace. To kids growing up in Pine Village, Indiana, life appeared sunny and secure. Attending Vacation Bible School at the Methodist Church was simply what kids did in the spring at about the time that farmers had finished planting.

Freshly Baked Cookies

A Highlight of Vacation Bible School

(The New Fun with Dick and Jane, 1956)

The morning temperatures were not too hot but just right for walking to the church, a brick building that stood near Pine Creek. The staff of volunteers included a few junior high or high school girls who assisted the young mothers that led us kids in lessons and songs. The time flew by. Soon, we caught glimpses of older women who were carrying trays as they entered the basement.

We could hardly wait for the invitation to form a line to receive our cookies! Women in my grandmother’s generation baked homemade treats for us kids to enjoy. Each of us had two cookies. They were not modest offerings; instead, they were big, as if each baker were trying to outdo the others.

The kitchen area in the church basement was painted white, and the small windows near the ceiling diffused a pale sunlight reminiscent of a dairy barn. The natural scent of the cool lower level resembled the fragrance of old libraries. When the baked goods were displayed for us, the aromas of peanut butter and chocolate arose and wafted up the stairs. We greedily consumed raisin cookies prepared to perfection, brown sugar creations packed with rich chunks of melted chocolate, and sugar cookies as large as saucers with lemony sugar sparkling on top. I can close my eyes and see again the smiling faces of the cooks whose delight in life, apparently, was to serve us. They had our same last names because they were our grandmothers and our great aunts. They beamed as they noted how greatly we appreciated their handiwork.

We could not foresee the turbulent decade that followed. Time seemed to move more slowly back then. To us kids, the way of life that included cookies in the church basement during Vacation Bible School was the best way that had been devised and not likely to change. Everything seemed to have found its proper place within a tranquil world. Looking upon that past makes me wonder if I had enough appreciation for it at the time.

Vacation Bible School 1

When my mother felt I was old enough, she let me walk to Vacation Bible School, which was held at the end of May and the beginning of June. I can still recall a sunny, carefree morning with a hint of the increasingly hot daytime temperatures to come in a few hours. I set out from our house on the east side of Pine Village. First, I crossed the curved parking area in front of our fence and paused at the edge of State Route 26. After looking both ways several times, I crossed the road. With the most menacing part of the trip behind me, I cheerfully sought the sidewalk that ran beside the school playground.

Methodist Episcopal Church, 1903

Pine Village, Indiana

Photograph Possibly by Magnolia “Nolia” Cobb (1863–1922)

I sauntered along Jim Eberle’s front yard. I could hear his horses nickering in the stable behind his house. I strolled down the hill. To a person from hilly country, the “hill” might not be recognizable as a hill, but, in flat land such as the fields that stretched northward from Warren County into Benton County, the slight downward grade toward town was considered a hill. At the intersection on the edge of the downtown, I glanced over at Terrell’s Market, a grocery store with a gasoline pump and the owner’s five-room house practically adjoining. A customer might be carrying meat, which was wrapped in paper and which would be cooked for the noon meal. My family followed the farmers’ practice of calling the midday meal “dinner.” (The evening meal was “supper.”) Years later, my high school class painted the interior of Terrell’s Market as a community service project before such projects were called by that term. My classmates and I just thought we could be helpful.

Pine Village Methodist Church Bulletin from the 1950s

I turned at the corner and progressed in front of a row of houses that included the home of Mr. and Mrs. Lowell Morris. Lowell had served as the minister of the Methodist Church before I was born, had moved away to minister to other congregations elsewhere, but had recently returned to Pine Village in retirement. He was a surrogate father to my mother. He and his second wife, Fern, spent many a Sunday having dinner at our house. His first wife, Ella, had passed away long before. My father always said that the Reverend Morris gave intelligent sermons. My father’s assessment meant that “Grandpa Morris,” as I referred to him, appealed to the intellect. When I was in high school, I had the pleasure of hearing Grandpa give a guest sermon at the church. I was amazed. He quoted great literature while carefully constructing an argument of biblical interpretation worthy of an English Department degree in a leading university. Only later did I hear another minister reach the same level of sophistication; he was an elderly gentleman who served the congregation of the First Christian Church in Bloomington, Indiana, but I have forgotten his name.

By the time I reached Church Street and Jefferson Streets, I was ready to mount the steps to the front door. With the sunshine pouring onto the doorway, I felt hot, but, after entering the vestibule, I felt delightfully cool. The interior of the church preserved the nighttime temperature well into the morning.

You will notice from my description that, except for crossing the state highway, no threats were posed. The dreamy safety of those years, now so long ago, is one of the hallmarks of that time.