CHAPTER 26
It is circa 1898 and little Lena McCoy, daughter of Andrew and Victoria (Wickerham) McCoy and granddaughter of John Milligan & Eleanor (Ralston) Wickerham is letting us in on her early childhood memories of the church services held in the church at Tranquility.
Perhaps often said that whenever a church settled down to a lethargy of meek acceptance of everything put out by its ecclesiastical heads regardless of its scriptural soundness, there was little hope for such a one spiritually. He believed that even though sometimes there may be striving for, and even establishing for a time, some things that do not pass the scriptural test, that is better than to have the whole system of errors built up unquestioned.
“Truth crushed to earth shall rise again, when somebody gets a pry under it,” was part of his philosophy.
There was no lethargy in the old Tranquility church of my childhood – naturally not, since the Gaileyites and Steelites had come in.
I remember vividly the Sabbath days about 1898. There was a Spanish American War soldier of the church about to leave, or who had recently returned. This uniformed Spriggs young man, and the “Ten Little Indians” game I played tie together in my memory.
Saturday preparation for the Sabbath followed the same pattern in our home as in former generations. Many individual items were unchanged. The same little mill ground the coffee on Saturday for the Sabbath. The absence of the tinkling drip, drip of the lye into the crock underneath the ash hopper still contributed to the Sabbath quiet. It was not the drip that was proposed to be silenced but if it dripped there would be the chore of pouring in water, then the emptying of lye crocks. Enough lye for soap-making could drip in man’s six days.
This particular Sabbath morning Father had hitched Pet and Bill to the surrey and we were all getting dressed for church. I can vision us yet; I in my little red cashmere dress with the Bertha collar cut in pointed scallops and trimmed with black beads. This dress was my pride and joy. Ellis was dressed like all the other little boys of that day, tight knee pants suit, blousy shirt. Both of us wore long black stockings. Mother and Aunt Lou wore the usual basque and full skirted floor length skirts. Aunt Lou wore a bustle but Mother had discarded the fashion. Father wore his wedding suit and his every day cowhide boots, trousers legs pulled down over the high tops. I had seen him blacking them this morning and was a bit shocked, but he explained to me that they were all he had to wear.
The Ridge Road ran along the rim of a high cliff up beyond the John Wallace place for quite a distance. This place terrified me as there were spots where there were no trees for a long-ways down. Usually by the time we reached the cliff, the buggies and surries and maybe a horseback rider or two, formed a long procession going to
church. Father would drive well over to the right and away from the cliff so I wouldn’t be scared.
There was a definite reason why I was so afraid of this place. Coming home one day, a young smart alec’ came up from behind, his horses’ head reined way high. This made him nervous so that, lunging and jumping he passed the whole line of Ridgers. The driver made great pretense of trying to control his horse while crowding us to what seemed dangerously near the edge of the cliff.
“This did not cause such a hazard with the gentle horses, but old Bill had once been a race horse and was hard to hold when anything looked to him like a race.
Father said the young gagger was just showing off and ought to have that fancy buggy whip that waved from the whip stock used on him. I was always afraid this scene would occur again and never enjoyed the homeward drive until we passed the cliff.
The widow McCullough, with her small son Irwin, usually drove out her long lane from her home across a field from the cliff just in time to fall in with the long line of church goers made up of the John Wallaces’, Steele McCreights’, Oliver McCreights’, Spencer Montgomerys’, the Taylor Gastons’, Wallace Arrasmiths’, Billy McCreights’, Dassie and Maggie McCullough, Andy McCoys’, Robert Williams’ , Lizzie and Jennie Williams’, Tom Armstrongs’, John Knechtlys’, and the Cargill Wickerhams’, naming them from west to east.
No other rhythm was ever like that of the horses’ hoof beats on the floor of this old-covered bridge, as I remember them, still resounding when we reached the top of the church hill if we happened to be near the front of the line.
Before the long pastoral prayer this day the minister said, “Let us bow our heads in prayer.” This was an invocation. Then there was a slight rustle that just bowing of heads could not cause. Ellis sat perfectly still as did Father, Mother and Aunt Lou with heads reverently bowed. I squirmed a little, and ever so carefully so that Mother would not notice me. I surveyed the part of the congregation I could see without turning my head. I had my head bowed just a little and just like the ladies, supported it by my hand that held my fluffed out lacy handkerchief which gave me an excellent peaking position. I knew my eyes should be closed but form was all upset now.
None of the men that I could see were standing but I counted ten women who had arisen to stand through prayer. For several Sabbaths after this, maybe a year, I counted. For a few Sabbaths their ranks held, then there were nine. “Just like the ten little Indians,” I thought as one by one they remained seated. Counting had become a game to me. “Then there were three,” Mrs. Sim Williams, Mrs. Sanford McCullough and Mrs. Alfred Blair. “I’ll stand for prayer as long as anyone will stand with me,” I heard Mrs. Williams say to Mother out in the yard under the trees where visiting at least an hour after church services was the custom.
The ex-Gaileyites and Steelites spoke of this period as “Speaking Meetings” and only gradually came to lingering with the rest for visiting. At first their conversation was strictly limited to spiritual matters or the state of people’s health, some charitable project
and such. In time, more freedom of speech was adopted but always there was a restraint of conversation.
“Then there were two.” I can’t recall which gave up first. Then there were none! They had employed their right of protest in their own peculiar way and consciences were clear.
I read a little poem the other day, which brought back those memories from childhood. Some advanced thinkers of that day may have written it:
“The proper way for a man to pray,”
Said Deacon Lemuel Keys,
“And the only proper attitude
Is down upon his knees.”
“No, I should say the way to pray,”
Said Reverend Doctor Wise
“Is standing straight with up lifted
Hand, and rapt and upturned eyes.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” said Elder Slow,
“Such posture is too proud;
A man should pray with eyes fast closed
And head contritely bowed.”
“It seems to me his hands should be
Austerely clasped in front,
With both thumbs pointing toward the
Ground,” said Reverend Doctor Blunt.
“Last year, I fell in Hodgin’s Well
Head first,” said Cyrus Brown
“With both by heels a-stretching up
My head a-pointing down;
And I made a prayer right then and there
Best prayer I ever said,
The prayingest prayer I ever prayed
A-standing on my head.”
The bowing of heads for prayer soon became established and all was quite reverence. Even as a child I could just feel the presence of the Holy Spirit in that old church which was a true indication that those differences had not destroyed the unity of the Spirit.
