Sunday, April 28, 2013

A Month of Sundays

Glorious spring day, not too hot, but definitely warmer than last Saturday and Coolspring Presbyterian Church held a rummage and bake sale. Coolspring church is across the road from the farm my grandmother, Hazel, lived. My mother spent her summers here, or at least part of them. In all these years, I had never set foot into this church. Today, I did.
The pastor, a young man wearing a black short sleeve shirt with collar, probably has a child or two under six. His wife, a pastor, too, in Sandy Lake, so they live in that manse. I asked if I could see the sanctuary. He led me in and showed me the small room. I thought, "What a beautiful place for a wedding." I was surprised to read later in the two hundred year history of 2000, that no weddings had taken place for one hundred forty years in the church. I guess church weddings weren't as common as I assumed. I thought for sure at least Aunt Jim had married here.
Many funerals in one hundred fifty years, but no weddings. One funeral I know my mom told me about was when Grandpa Evans' father died in 1932. Great grandpa's cousin arrived from Boston with his chauffeur. Henry Evans, I think was his name, owned a steel mill there. I would assume his father did not go into the ministry, like David R. Evans did.
I scratch the surface of this bit of family history. Hard to truly get the whole feel of those times. I crave generous times for research and reflection. The members proved gracious, listening to us, as we kept going back and buying little things, as well as cream puffs and cookies.

We leave after pictures to find a gun store, David found an old address for. Sheep and lambs catch our attention, David stopped for me to take more pictures. I love these old country roads, and yes, one time this too was my territory for a home health job.
I had no idea where David is driving, scary part he has no idea either. We see the sign for the gun shop. I think it is close to a mile to this little store at the end of a gravelly path.
After reading comments on Huffington Post, the gun shop breathed a fresh air. Mary Ellen and I enjoyed the Rottweiler, Pork Chop. An adorable bear of a dog greeted us wagging his stump. He wandered into the shop, a narrow hall, really with a counter and guns on the wall, a few T-shirts that are definitely not politically correct.  I love it. Pork stares at a man behind the counter.
"You must have some food?" I hazard a guess.
"No, he knows I have a laser. He's smart enough to know where it comes from, but not smart enough to discover he can never catch it," a man in a green shirt flickered the black device.
The dog chased, wildly attacking the circle of red light, just as I was readying to take his picture. I decided, I want a Rot, next.
I enjoy talking to the men, with views we don't hear much on the national level. They proudly joked about probably being on some government hit list. I agree to a point, then as David and one start arguing over General Patton, I suggest it is time to exit. Mel wants to be with her friends, anyways. A couple hours with the 'rents is enough. The talk of  'Nam made her gills green, especially if he used one word one more time, she told me later. I listen to so much as a nurse I can keep my cookies.
Outside, the chickens roamed at this place in the middle of nowhere. We cross a pond that seems more than a pond, but we can't see it all. I thought, I'll look at a map when we get home, but just think of it now. We bask in the afternoon sun on the forty minute ride home. I am amazed every year at our spring beauty.
Why do days like this seem to go so fast? Yet, I relaxed enjoying the history and the rednecks of the country. I think, yeah, I'm proud to be a "bitter clinger."  My family has lived in this area since the early 1800's. The other Thompson's over in Kennerdale and Grove City, till mines closed, bringing them to West Middlesex. Either farmers or miners to later steel workers, we are bright, intelligent people making a living. I wish I could write every story. I hope to catch a glimpse of the history and portray their courage.
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