A 125th Anniversary!

Today is the 125th anniversary of my father's birth. I would like to honor him by printing here a biographical sketch of the first 45 years of his life. This is a .pdf file that I copied to this blog - and it wiped out all the paragraph spacing! Sorry! The Life of Barney Clyde Crockett (1896-1957), the years 1896- 1941: Notes by his son, Larrimore Clyde Crockett My Father, the Rev. Barney Clyde Crockett, was born May 14, 1896 in Rockalo, GA (located on the Alabama border, north of Carrollton), son of Wad T. Crockett and Leola Persons Crockett. He was the eighth of eleven children, nine of whom lived into adulthood. Our knowledge of his childhood years is sketchy, but from various sources we can piece some things together. In his infancy, Dad lived in and around Glenn, GA and Bremen, GA, and then his family moved to a farm in Cleborne Co., Alabama (in NE Alabama – we don’t know exactly where in the county they lived). When Barney was 10 1⁄2 they moved to Atlanta, GA where they lived for about a year and a half, and then they moved to Calhoun Co. AL (also in NE Alabama) and fairly soon after that to DeKalb Co., AL to a farm in Pine Grove. They were living there when dad was thirteen years old, and they are recorded in the Census of 1910. In one account Dad says that he was twelve years old, in another thirteen, when, as he puts it, “I surrendered my heart and my life to God.” In one of his autobiographical accounts it is clear that this happened in a Methodist Church in Alabama, so it was probably in Pine Grove. To my knowledge no one in our family has ever sought to track down just where their farm or that church was, what is there today, or what historical record exists concerning it. During his teen years they probably made the move to Bremen, GA, back to Alabama and then to Carrolton, GA, and perhaps that is where they were living when dad went to Young Harris College, in 1917. Since he says he had ten years of public school education in Alabama, there needs to be ten years of residency in Alabama between about 1901 and 1920. At the very least we can say that he had to adjust many times to moving, and that his elementary education was frequently interrupted. In all likelihood, there were periods of time between age six and twenty when he was not in school at all, but was working on the family farm. Dad gives a fairly full account of his religious life during his adolescence (which I will talk about later) and from that we know he spent a great deal of his teen years in reading the Bible, and attending various church meetings. As he puts it—if the door of the church was open for any reason, on any day of the week, he was there. In 1917, at the age of 21, he left home to attend Young Harris Academy for the last two years of high school. Young Harris is in the mountains of North Georgia. I have visited the Young Harris campus and we have dad’s yearbook from that time. He continued at Young Harris for the junior college program and graduated in 1921 with honors and a grade average of 94. He was very active in the debating society at Young Harris. He says that during his college years his only recreations were “public speaking and mountain climbing.” -In another place Dad says that they moved to Atlanta when he was 10 1⁄2, and lived there 17 months. Thus they must have moved to Atlanta about November 1906, and moved back to Alabama about April, 1908. -He says that he spent 10 years of his boyhood in northern Alabama and graduated from Alabama public schools. In one of his biographical summaries he mentions a log church which stood on his father’s farm, which had been used to store hay but was cleaned out and used for Sunday School and services. Dad wanted to be a minister from the age of thirteen when he experienced his “conversion,” but the more conservative religious tradition he grew up in led him to think he had not received a valid call to ministry. Thus he settled for what he considered “second best” – a vocation as a teacher. Thus, following graduation from Young Harris College, at age 26, he took a teaching position at Lindsey-Wilson Training School in Columbia, Kentucky, which he described as “a Methodist boarding school of high school grade.” There I think he taught English and Math. Wikipedia says that Lindsey Wilson College was founded in January 1903 in affiliation with the southern division of the Methodist Episcopal Church. Named after the late stepson of Catherine Wilson, the college was originally called Lindsey Wilson Training School, educating grades one through twelve in a grade school on campus. Instruction focused on preparing young people of the area for coursework at Vanderbilt University and training students to become educators. It is likely that dad taught there under the presidency of R.V. Bennett, who is described as a “Methodist minister, philosopher and mathematician” in the LWC History. Under his leadership, Lindsey Wilson Training School became a Junior College in 1923. This must have happened either while dad was there, or right after he left, probably the latter. Today Lindsey-Wilson is a four-year college associated with the Methodist Church. I have never visited the campus. Pobably because of the connection between Lindsey-Wilson and Vanderbilt, Dad attended Peabody College for Teachers in Nashville, TN for two summers – probably 1922 and 1923. I think I have a transcript that shows the courses he transferred from Peabody into Piedmont College. Peabody College is now part of Vanderbilt University. I visited the Library there in 2007 and photographed the catalog of courses from Summer 1923, thus getting a better sense of the courses dad took there. While he was at Peabody College, a significant event occurred, which dad describes thusly: "I came head on into the conflict between fundamentalism and liberalism in theology. Dr. Edwin Mims, head of the English Department of Vanderbilt University, spoke at Vespers one Sunday afternoon on the folklore in the Old Testament. For the first time I learned that some Bible scholars thought of the Bible as being both divine and human – just like Jesus. I had never thought it was anything but divine; I thought men wrote as moved by the Holy Spirit. So Dr. Mims speech made me mad. My very heart was torn and bleeding. I even dropped my young lady friend, because she took the opposite view. I did not know it at the time, but Dr. Mims actually cracked the door open just a little, through which I was to enter upon the Christian ministry. Dr. Mims is an illustrious figure in Vanderbilt history. He authored a definitive history of Vanderbilt (History Of Vanderbilt University, 1946) and was a progressive voice in his time. For example, there is a 1926 New York Times article which reports a speech he gave before the “Southern Society” in Manhatten: “If you ask me whether I am a Southerner, my reply must be—one kind but not all kinds. The solidarity of the South is no longer a source of pride, but of humiliation to many of its most devoted men...There is a South that finds expression in the crude and blatant utterances of men like Cole Blease and Vardaman, and another that finds expression in the statesmanship of men like Carter Glass and Oscar Underwood. There is a South that practices and justifies lynching and another South that believes it is unjustifiable under any and all circumstances. . .These are facts that cannot be gotten around by hifalutin talk about the beauty of Southern women and the chivalry of Southern men. ” (Note: Cole Blease was a racist governor of South Carolina and James Vardaman was an even more virulent racist Governor of Mississippi and U.S. Senator. Both favored lynching as a strategy of white supremacy. Carter Glass was a progressive Virginian politician and Oscar Underwood a Democratic Senator from Alabama who led the anti-Ku Klux Klan forces in the party in 1924). In the Fall of 1923, dad entered Piedmont College, Demorest, GA. Piedmont was affiliated with the Congregational Church—a significant shift away from what up to that point had been a consistent educational affiliation with the Methodist Church (Young Harris, Lindsey-Wilson and Vanderbilt all were Methodist-affiliated). Dad does not explain anywhere in his autobiographical narratives what influenced him to go to Piedmont. It may be simply that it was a four-year college, that it was also in the mountains of north Georgia (which he loved), and that it was not far away from Young Harris. (It may be that I am over- emphasizing the difference between YHC and Piedmont. A little research has uncovered the fact that Charles Spence, the founder of the school that became Piedmont College, was president of Young Harris College. So there was probably a strong link between the two and maybe it was common for graduates of YHC to go on the Piedmont). In any case, it was a decisive move in his life, for it was at Piedmont that he was able to see his way clear to entering the ministry, largely under the influence of chapel talks by the President, Dr. Frank Jenkins, who, dad wrote, “proved my Joshua to lead me out of the wilderness.” That is, Dr. Jenkins nurtured him in a more liberal theology which allowed him to see that the call to ministry was not as strict and limited as he had thought, and that someone like himself, with the beliefs that he had come to hold, could actually be called to ministry. While at Piedmont he served both years as preceptor of a boy’s dormitory and graduated in 1925 with a Ph.B. in Philosophy and with the highest general grade average in his class. It was at this time that dad met our mother, Olga W. Winter, the summer of 1925, during summer school at Piedmont. Dad had just graduated from Piedmont, and stayed on to teach at the summer session. Mother had been a student at Atlanta Theological Seminary from Fall, 1923 to Spring, 1925. It was a Congregational institution with ties to Piedmont College: It’s President, Frank W. Shipman, was also chairman of the Board of Trustees at Piedmont. I am a little fuzzy about the sequence of events that led mother to go to Atlanta Theological Seminary in the first place. I have always thought that mother was a missionary for the Congregational Home Missionary Society first and then went to seminary. But now I’m beginning to think that the sequence was that she left home, went to work (one of my notes says she worked in a factory where they made dishes), got in with a group of young women like Gladys Lindower and Florence Schaeffer, they all went to a revivial meetimg led by Amie Semple McPherson in the Canton Civic Arena, she went forward to have her foot prayed over, she accepted Christ as her personal Saviour as did some of the other young women; in a follow-up to this conversion experience she started attending the Congregational Church in Canton, where Rev. Longsworth was pastor and a woman whom mother called “Mother Carnes,” Mrs. James Carnes, was a member who took mother under her wing, mother got involved there, maybe in Christian Education, she was encouraged to go to seminary and went to Atlanta where you didn’t need to have a college degree (I’m not sure mother even had a high school diploma!), she met dad in 1925 at Summer School at Piedmont, she was ordained to preach in October, 1925, and then went to Evarts and Corbin, KY. One thing that speaks against this however is that a letter she wrote dad in November, 1925 – clearly in the first blush of their love – is written from Canton. It is interesting to just take note of the fact that the Scopes Trial, in Dayton, TN, began on July 10, 1925, and occupied the front pages of newspapers all over the country that summer. This trial must have been of great interest to my father, having just moved out of his more fundamentalist understanding of the Bible into a more liberal view as the result of influences at Piedmont College. I wonder what he and mother thought about this trial and the issues it raised about the relation of the theory of evolution to Christian faith and belief, and whether they ever talked about it that summer? Is it possible that they had differing views on it? Despite his new sense of calling into ministry, in the fall after graduation from Piedmont dad took a one-year position as an instructor in American Literature at the Randolph-Macon Academy in Bedford, VA. for the 1925-26 academic year. We have some letters dad wrote mother during this year, and at least one that mother wrote dad. Mother and dad were married in Williamsburg, KY June 9, 1926. Through the Rev. Fred Ensminger, who was the Superintendent of the Southeastern Conference of the Congregational Church (whom dad probably met through mother, though he may have met him while a student at Piedmont), dad was licensed as a Congregational Minister and secured a position on Signal Mountain, TN from 1926-29 where dad started a community church under the auspices of the Congregational Board of Home Missions. Dad was ordained as a Congregational minister there at Signal Mountain in 1926 and my brother Stewart was born there June 25, 1927. We have a fairly full account of the Signal Mountain years in periodic reports dad made to the Congregational Home Mission Board. He was very successful in the organization of The Community Church of Signal Mountain. He took pride in the fact that it was “community – wide,” with a membership representing many different denominations, and was not affiliated with any one denomination, not even the Congregationalists. He was ultimately discouraged by the fact that the church was “swallowed up by the Presbyterians, who at the time were fundamentalists.” But, he says, “they were indigenous to the community, which the Congregationalists were not.” And then with characteristic humility: “I feel our movement was defeated to begin with. Certainly I did not have the wisdom and strength for the task.” At about the time that he began to see the “handwriting on the wall” at Signal Mountain, Dr. Ozora Davis, President of Chicago Theological Seminary and at that time Moderator of the General Council of Congregational Churches, came to Chattanooga on his way back from Hawaii, and visited the Signal Mountain Church. He urged dad to come to C.T.S. and assured him of a parish nearby. That turned out to be Big Rock, Illinois, which dad said, “was a most fortunate landing for us.” Ellen and I visited Signal Mountain in early 2007. We arrived at the church on a Sunday afternoon which proved to be quite interesting—the church was having a congregational meeting to vote on whether to withdraw from the local Presbytery (Presbyterian Church, U.S.A.), because the denomination had become too liberal. The vote was overwhelmingly in favor of withdrawal. So the conservative forces are still strong on Signal Mountain. Dad moved to Big Rock, Illinois in April, 1929. At some time prior to that, mother went with Stewart to Canton, OH, to her parents’ home. A letter addressed to her there from Dr. Frank R. Shipman, the President of Atlanta Theological Seminary, dated March 11, 1929, reveals that a great deal was going in dad’s and mother’s life at that time, and also that there was some potential conflict: My dear Olga, Your letter from Canton has just reached me. Things have happened very much as I feared they would; only they have happened faster, and there are more of them than I realized. I had not, of course, sensed the Presbyterian Church difficulty (how scandalously unchristian of them!), nor the worry about Barnie’s parents. But otherwise I was pretty sure that things would turn out about as they have. I wish that I could pour money into your lap, but I’m pledged a bit beyond my income. I know that you’ll pardon the elderly pusson (sic) that I am for saying that your going to Canton was foolish. But I know your temperament, and I could foresee the situation which you would find. Still, the foolishness, if such it was, was comparatively unimportant...it didn’t take you far, and it was something from which you could draw back fairly soon and safely. But if the program goes on, and if Barnie goes to Chicago now (I mean in September), then you will have trouble. No, no, for heaven’s sake, drop the idea temporarily. Debts already, the Signal Mountain Church threatening, Barnie’s parents in critical condition, -- it’s too much. The only wise thing just now is to call a halt, for Barnie to get a school (as he easily can), an assured income for a year, and postpone Chicago for a year. I agree cordially that he ought to go there; but there’s time enough. You’re both young. Be his steadying good angel now, and not a feverish genius, hurrying him into a path that will just mean a mess and a continuous worry. Yours truly, Frank R. Shipman. This letter implies that (1)mother and dad were in financial straits, (2)both their parents were a concern—dad’s apparently ill, and mother’s just very difficult (probably because of abusive behavior by her father), and (3)dad’s decision to go to CTS at this time seemed ill considered, at least to Shipman. He seems to be advising that dad get a teaching position for one year, and postpone seminary. Who knows how much, if any of this, mother passed on to dad. But the letter made no difference: dad went to Big Rock the month after this letter was written, and entered CTS in January, 1930. I don’t know when mother actually came to Big Rock, but probably sometime in Spring, 1929. In a resume written in October 1933, dad said that he had “added more members to the (Big Rock) church than any other pastor in its 74 years, except Dr. Robert W. Gammon, who built the present church in 1900.” Writing in Anamosa almost twenty years later, on an occasion when a couple of members of the Big Rock church were present, dad had positive words about Big Rock: The church there is composed of some of the best people God ever made. They did not demand too much of a young minister. The machinery of the church ran itself—that is, the lay people did all the work. The choir ran without a director. I did the best I knew how, but the church did not depend on me at all. What was not mentioned at this time was the fact (which I remember dad telling about) that during at least one year, his salary at Big Rock was contracted at $600 a year, but that they only paid $200 of it. This was of course during the Great Depression. Undoubtedly the church was experiencing financial difficulties. But mother and dad must have really struggled financially. I remember them telling of buying wheat by the bushel, roasting it in the oven, grinding it in a coffee grinder, and living on a rough gruel. Stewart remembers Christmas boxes donated by more well-off Chicago churches who were probably made aware of our family’s plight by someone at the seminary. It was in the midst of this difficult time that I was born (March 2, 1933), two days before Roosevelt was inaugurated President. At CTS, dad majored in Practical Theology. He has only glowing words for his seminary experience: The Chicago Theological Seminary gave me three golden years of growth in knowledge and inspiration. The teachers, the students, the books, the experience all wrought for me a wonderful miracle of expansion in every way. I did not learn the Bible there, for I was already familiar with it. But I learned a lot about it, for I studied under some of the world’s leading Bible scholars. Further than that, I was led to think out the application of the Gospel to the life of men in all their relations to one another. In another place: The years at the seminary were happy, fruitful, golden years. The books, the discussions, the associations, the friendships stimulated my thinking and confirmed my faith and devotion. Those years wrote in many of the details of my new theology. For some time my theology had been rather nebulous, lacking coordination. Now it took form, became organized into a system. However, it did not crystallize. It is one of my fixed beliefs that one should never entertain fixed beliefs. Beliefs should always remain fluid, or at least malleable—held subject to correction when and if new facts are discovered. During the three years of full-time work at CTS, dad spent Monday-Friday at the seminary, and weekends and summers at the Big Rock parish. This left mother alone with Stewart during the week, and after I was born, she had to deal with a newborn and a six- year old, much of the time alone. Undoubtedly she bore the brunt of the difficulties of these years. After completing his course work at CTS, dad moved to a church in Gray’s Lake, IL. The reasons were primarily financial. He writes, the country was at the bottom of the depression. The farmers were actually losing money, rather than making it. I could have rode it out with the parish, but for the fact that I was in debt and had to have cash. So we moved to Grays Lake. The Grays Lake experience was even more difficult. Stewart developed a mastoid infection, had to have surgery and came within a hair’s breadth of dying. Dad writes, "...on top of that we found ourselves attacked by the Ku Kluxers, the red baiters and the Moodyites. The red baiters thought I was a Communist; the Moodyites thought I was practically an atheist. Some of those good people wanted the church to pull away from the Congregational Association and organize the “Fundamentalist Gospel Church of Grays Lake”....But I got something out of the deal....It gave me experience in standing on my two hind legs and facing opposition with firmness and affection. Since then, I have not been afraid of the Devil, for I know he can be defeated if the Christian remains Christian and keeps witnessing for Christ." The opposition which dad refers to came to a climax in an Ecclesiastical Council of the Chicago Association, called to deal with the conflict in the church and specifically to deal with criticisms of dad – almost a kind of trial to determine his fitness for ministry. A vote was taken at that Council in which there was overwhelming support for him and his ministry. However, many of those opposed to him did not attend the meeting; they were unwilling to criticize him in a public forum. We actually have the attendance sheet for the occasion in a file! Dad ended up writing his B.D. dissertation at CTS about the Grays Lake Church. Titled An Unadapted Church, it is a fascinating socio-religious study of the community of Grays Lake and the relationship of the church to it. The incident above is narrated in detail. Dad was only at Grays Lake for a year and a half: from December 1933 to June 1935. The summer of 1934, Stewart remembers going with dad to the Chicago Boys Club camp in Winona Lake, IN where dad was a counselor—a position he got through his brother-in-law, Art Snyder (husband of dad’s sister, Maude) who was on the staff. The summer of 1935, dad left Stewart there while he was a candidate for the position in Minneapolis at Como Church; later that summer the family moved to Minneapolis. Stewart and I visited Grays Lake in 2002 or so. The Congregational church organization merged with the Methodists to form the United Church of Grays Lake (so the church was not lost to the fundamentalists after all), and occupies a new building. The church building of dad’s time still exists, but as a lodge, not as a church. The parsonage no longer exists. I have no memories of Grays Lake (being ages nine months to twenty-eight months while there), but Stewart does have some memories of the house, the school and the neighborhood. We moved to Minneapolis in June or July, 1935. The Como Avenue Congregational Church was a significant step up for dad. I don’t have the statistics at hand, but it was a much larger congregation, an urban church close enough to the campus of the University of Minnesota to have professors in the congregation and to have programs relating to students. It must have paid a larger salary than dad had ever made before. We rented an apartment for a couple of years on a block we shared with Prof. David Swenson, one of the translators of Kierkegaard. We then rented two different houses, the second one next door to the church. In 1940, dad and mother bought a house at 1082, 13th Ave., a block and a half away from the church. It was the only house they ever owned. I think the church may have helped them buy it. It is ironic because they had very little opportunity actually to enjoy living in it together. We did not own a car during our time in Minneapolis. There were streetcars that provided good public transportation. Dad must have done his calling on foot or by street - car. He had a friend, Mr. Henry Way, founder and owner of the Way Sagless Spring Company who I think loaned him the use of a car now and then. Dad also played chess with him from time to time. While at Como dad started the candlelight Maundy Thursday Service which was held around tables in the church dining room. They also had a Christmas Eve service, though I don’t think it was at midnight. There was an active choir and we used to own a record made by that choir which had on it, inter alia, Bach’s Jesu Meine Freude and a spiritual, King Jesus is a Listenin’, so it wasn’t too shabby a choir. There was a program I remember called “The University of Life” which I think was a kind of study series that attracted University of Minnesota people. Dad had large Confirmation Classes – we have a photograph of the one Stewart was in, in 1940, and there are seventeen young people in it. There was an annual Thanksgiving Pageant at the church in which people assumed the various roles of Pilgrims and Native Americans, in full costume. My memory is that the congregation was active and that Sunday services comfortably filled the sanctuary – probably somewhere between 150 and 200 people. While we were in Minneapolis, dad had a bout with illness. We happen to have a description of it in his own hand, which he titles A Month of Illness. It is very revealing of his attitude and his inner spiritual life: "Friday morning, Feb __, 1940, I arose to discover my joints were stiff and sore. Before noon, I felt so tired I went back to bed to rest. I went down to lunch, but on taking my temp. afterward I found it at 102°, so I went back to bed. Dr. said, “You have a beautiful case of flu.” Fever rose to 103.2° and raged for four days. I felt well except for weakness and lassitude. Fever subsided but I awoke one morning with severe pains in my back and abdomen. Dr. said, “Your muscles are sore from lying in bed; you’ll be all right soon. Get up some each day and you’ll be all right.” On a Sunday morning I called him again. The pains had been worse than at first. He said “you have myalgia following flu (post-influenzal myalgia). The best treatment for this condition is only to be had in the hospital.” So I went directly to St. Barnabas Hospital and the treatments started. For five days I experienced no improvement but rather felt worse. I wondered if the diagnosis had been correct! Dr. examined my lungs again, thought he heard a suspicious vibrating sound; ordered an immediate X-Ray. For years I had been suspected by examining doctors of having TB. But the earphone exam had always allayed their suspicions. But now the exam confirmed the Dr’s suspicions. I was feeling badly enough to believe anything. During the 24 hours before the report, I had time to adjust myself to the idea. I would probably spend a year in a sanitarium. Perhaps I could find a parish in Arizona after that. My chief concern was how my wife and children would make out in my absence. Not once did it occur to me to pray for myself. For years I have scarcely uttered a petition for personal benefits. And so I did not now. I was in pain; I was weak; but I was not frightened. God’s presence has been real to me for over 30 years. The general tenor of my......." This memoir is incomplete, but even in its incomplete form, it says a lot, and perhaps what it most reveals is a kind of Stoicism in dad’s personal faith and piety which was probably not unusual among Christians of his generation, but which I think was due more to his upbringing, and particularly, I suspect, to the influence of his mother, than it was to Christian faith per se. Clearly he had a deep trust in God, but he did not regard it as appropriate or necessary to ask any divine favor for himself; that, I think, is the Stoic element. I remember his telling us that during WW II, he made a surprise visit to his mother on his way from one camp to another. He had not seen her for probably fifteen years, and walked into the house without any advance warning. She was standing at the sink doing the dishes, he said, and simply looked up when he walked in and said, “Hello Barney.” No squeal of joy, no hugs, no excitement. Just a calm hello. I think there was a lot of that temperament in dad’s character. There is another little window on dad’s personality that survives in the files from this same time. In February, 1940, while dad was recuperating from the flu, (evidently in the early stage of the illness described above—before he went to the hospital) both Stewart and I ended up in the hospital with severe athlete’s foot – so severe in my case that pus was dripping off my foot at a steady rate! The treatment was gentian violet foot baths every hour or so, and that was best accomplished in the hospital. During our stay there, dad wrote us an unusual letter – from his sick bed! (Well, he had to get up to type it). It was written on two separate sheets of onionskin paper, with alternate words on alternate sheets. He mailed one sheet to me, and the other to Stewart. In order to read the letter, we had to get together and put the two sheets together up to the light so that we could see all the words. We still have this letter; I have alternated bold and regular type to convey the way dad separated the two sets of words: "Minneapolis, February 1940 To my dear Boys: It certainly does make home a different kind of place to have both my little colts in the horsepital with this old workhorse sick in bed at the same time. Your mother seems to be the only member of the family able to keep on her feet. And if she did not, what would the rest of us do? You two would make out so long as you are in the care of your kind and efficient doctors and nurses. But to me she has served as nurse, cook, housekeeper and substitute pastor. I am feeling more nearly normal today than at any time since last Friday morning. At that time my fever developed, rapidly rising to 103.2° by the time Dr. Del Plaine arrived at 9:00p.m. Now it is normal. I shall be out of bed in a few days. I hope you will be home soon, but want you to stay there as long as Dr. Williams thinks best. I have just had a close shave." Dad himself, in his later reflections on the Como church, is somewhat more critical: "There we worked in the middle of a stream. People moving in, others moving out all the time. I would receive people into the church and they would be gone in a week, a month, a year. At our leaving 6 years later, the personnel had changed radically. Today, it is quite different still." It was evidently because of this frustration over the mobility of people in his congregation, and perhaps also because of a long-standing desire to return to the South, that dad decided to take a parish in Texarkana, Arkansas. I wonder too if he thought the southern climate might be better for his lungs. It is a little hard to understand this move, because mother and dad had lived in the house they had bought only a year or so. It must have been difficult for mother, who I’m sure was enjoying having a home of her own for the first time in her life, one that she could fix up and enjoy the fruits of her work. It also meant pulling both Stewart and me out of schools where we had friends. But something fairly strong must have propelled dad to override all these considerations and make this move. Unfortunately, he could not foresee that only months after moving, the country would be at war. I wonder, had seen that coming, would he have decided to stay at Como Church? The trip to Texarkana was sort of exciting for an eight-year-old boy. It was by train, and we got to sleep in a Pullman berth. If I remember rightly, we were awakened during the night by dad urging us to look out the train window: the sky was filled with shooting stars! I loved eating in the dining car. It had an elegance I had never experienced: white linen table clothes and napkins, silver finger bowls, and something I had not experienced: a Negro waiter, in a white jacket with a towel draped over his arm. That was my first encounter with a person of another race. I know very little about the nature of the church in Texarkana. As I remember it: it was a large building with a round sanctuary, located right on State Line Avenue, on the Arkansas side. The other side of the street was Texas. It was right downtown. I recall that dad wore a swallowtail coat and striped trousers in the pulpit, and that ushers wore white gloves, so there was a touch of class pretention there. It may have been considered the most prestigious church in Texarkana. It had a fine organ, and a noted organist, Cozia Case, who I think had the nickname of “Cootchie.” I recall that a Negro man served as a kind of attendant to dad, and helped him prepare for going into the pulpit. Dad had an installation service in Texarkana and wrote a statement of his faith journey and beliefs for that occasion. It is one of two major autobiographical narratives that we have (the other having been written in Anamosa). The rest of dad''s life I hope to write about more fully later. Here is a summary: He entered the US Army as a chaplain in 1942 and was Post Chaplain at Fort Lewis, Washington and then served in France. After being discharged in 1945 he attended the University of Chicago for a term and then had pastorates in Anamosa, Iowa (1946-1952), and in Onawa and Blencoe, Iowa (1952-1957). He died of a brain tumor on April 24, 1957 in the University Hospital in Iowa City, Iowa. Dad was a fine pastor and preacher, a kind and gentle man; he had a wonderful sense of humor, a fine singing voice, a life-long love for the English language and fine speaking. His sermons were carefully crafted and fully written out, and then outlined. He would preach from the outline. He was very interested in pastoral psychology and counseling and took special courses in that area which he used in his pastoral ministry, especially with the mentally ill. He embraced his final illness with characteristic faith, strength and curiosity as to what he might learn from it. Here are some photos from his student years and the mid-1920s.