“My brothers and I were headed home from Greensboro where we had gone to sell a load of potatoes. We were in the horse-drawn buggy, riding along on a bumpy dirt road, which was supposed to be a short cut. Off to the left was some farmland and a big ol’ house and some outbuildings – a granary, a smoke house, a chicken house or two. I just remember clearly hearing the Lord speak to my heart: ‘Boyd, someday you’ll live there.’” 

Numerous times throughout my childhood, I listened with awe to Daddy’s account of hearing God’s voice that day. Even though he told it rather matter-of-factly, it always gave me goose bumps, especially since our family was now living in that big ol’ house.

The Great Depression was just rolling into the South about the time God spoke to Daddy. I wonder if he thought much about that farm during the ensuing hard years. When the economy began improving, about ten years later, Daddy was making a decent living at the knitting mill in Alamance. One day a co-worker told him about the for sale sign he had seen at that sprawling farm on the dirt road that cut between Kimesville and Rock Creek. It all came back to Daddy’s remembrance: the day he and his brothers sold a wagonload of potatoes and on the way home he had heard God’s voice. I don’t remember ever hearing the details, but somehow Daddy secured a seven-year loan and bought the “promised” land.

Mama and Daddy moved from Uncle Joe’s cottage in town with baby Elizabeth in tow. They settled into the old, run-down house – complete with the country charm of an outhouse and no telephone – on the farm that would become their home for the rest of their lives. 

 Daddy and Mama and my older sisters had been living there several years before I was born. They had made many improvements, including an indoor toilet. Mama had to wait a few more years before telephone service was available. Daddy continued working at the mill and farmed on the side. He invested in a new chicken house and began a laborious life-time career as a chicken farmer. 

There were only two other occupied homes on our two-mile long dirt road. You would have been correct to refer to our farm as being out in the sticks. It was probably the last place you would expect a crime spree. But just a few weeks after I was born, the wayward son of Mama’s good friend who lived across the road went on a drunken rampage one Sunday morning. He broke into our house (must have been challenging, entering through the screen door on the back porch) and stole the few valuables we had (some silver dollars, a radio). He then fled through the woods to another farmhouse on a nearby road where the ensuing confrontation led to his throwing the occupant of that house down an open well. He was arrested, convicted of murder and sent to prison. When I was older, I would listen intently as Mama retold the frightful story.

“You were just a few weeks old and I hadn’t taken you to church yet. But I just felt in my heart I needed to go and take you that day. If we had stayed home, he may have killed us, too.” 

If ever there was motivation for always attending church…

And we did. Every Sunday, every Sunday night, most Wednesday night prayer meetings, revival services and Vacation Bible School. But the reason wasn’t fear. We loved going to church. Sunday was the most special day of the week. I loved the plump, soft-skinned older ladies who taught my Sunday school class; the action songs; laying my head in Mama’s lap during the pastor’s sermon and counting the ceiling tiles while she gently stirred the breeze coming from the open window with her handheld fan.  Sometimes I would go with Daddy to the altar to pray at the end of the service. I loved it when he would pick me up, give me a big hug and tell me he loved me before carrying me to the car.

Occasionally – only occasionally – Daddy would go to church by himself, leaving us girls home with Mama. This never occurred on Sunday, but perhaps would be allowed when a revival service was scheduled for a Saturday night and mother was busy preparing for Sunday (she enjoyed having the visiting evangelist for Sunday dinner). I will never forget what happened one of those Saturday evenings. 

Daddy was upstairs getting dressed. The big-band music of Lawrence Welk was resonating from the television while my sister Anna and I were playing in our large eat-in-kitchen that was the center of our home. In the corner of the room was a curved, enclosed stairway that led to the upstairs bedrooms. Since our only toilet was located on the unheated enclosed back porch, we still used a chamber pot upstairs at night. Otherwise we would have to go down the stairs, through the kitchen and to the back porch (in the dark) if nature called at night. The family rule was that the last one up in the morning (that was usually me) was responsible for carrying the metal pot down the stairs, emptying and cleaning it. I guess I forgot. Anyway, Daddy, being the responsible man he was, noticed the pot hadn’t been emptied and was bringing it down just as Anna and I decided to chase each other. Oops…somehow we slammed the door at the bottom of the stairs as Daddy was descending the last step. The door knocked the pot out of his hand and the contents spilled out.

 Immediately, Anna and I stood at attention and stared at Daddy in disbelief. His Sunday-go-to-meeting suit was soaked. Mother turned from the kitchen sink with a look of horror on her face. I was waiting for daddy to respond – and he did. His characteristic gentle grin broke across his face and he started…laughing. Not loud guffaws, just a sort of quiet chuckle, somehow finding the humor is this unrefined situation. Anna and I apologized profusely as we grabbed towels to help Mama clean up the mess. 

Daddy hopped in the shower, redressed in his second-best and only other suit and without an angry word, left for church. Mother helped us scour the linoleum and the wood floors on the stairway. We used disinfectant and remarkably, rid the room of the stench of stale urine. Daddy’s suit was carefully put aside for the cleaners. Although there were some words of rebuke from Mama, no one was punished for this accident. In fact, through the years, we laughed about it quite a few times. When I tell my grandchildren “little Ruthie” stories, this is one of their favorites. There’s something to be said about a man whose children cause him to be doused with urine, and instead of being enraged, he laughs, then cleans up and still makes it to revival service on time. I think a fitting description is “a man full of the Holy Spirit.” He maintained that godly character all of his life, even when dementia invaded his mind. But before we go there, I have more “little Ruthie” stories to share.