GRANDMOTHER
USUALLY took Cecil and me to church with her and well do I remember the
prim tidiness of the interior of the old Congregational Church.
Grandmother dressed in a lace-trimmed silk gown of a somber color suited
to New England Sabbath days. Townspeople, men, women and children alike,
walked softly down the broad aisles, slipping unobtrusively into their
pews and settling themselves on the drab cushioned seats for whatsoever
the minister and choir might have in store for them, or, for a long period
of reflection, and, in some instances, sleep.
Whatever else the members did they could not have been guilty of certain
of the improprieties of the present day. They would not, for instance,
have turned around in their seats and nodded to friends or neighbors. They
had to bear ever in mind that they were in the house of God.
Saturday nights we were given scrubbings in the wash tub in the kitchen
and on Sundays we had to dress up and go to church and Sunday school. Upon
our return, we could throw off unnecessary impediments, put on fresh,
clean waists and enjoy ourselves within prescribed limits. We could walk
in the orchard and eat apples, currants, black raspberries or such fruits
as were in season. We could read books but we could not run and play
unless we did so in remote parts of our premises beyond the reach of grand
mother’s eyes. We could not leave home nor were our friends permitted to
come to see us. The latter provision was hardly necessary because our
usual playmates were also prohibited from going beyond the confines of
their yards.
When our cousins from Rutland were visiting us we could, of course, enjoy
each other’s company. All New England children
were expected to be little grown-ups on the Sabbath Day; the ecstatic joys
were for other days. I cannot, however, remember having been bored by New
England Sabbaths; they afforded me an opportunity to plan my campaign for
the coming six days.
The Reverend Aldace Walker was the minister of our church and his long
white beard seemed to qualify him for his saintly role. To this day when
one speaks of “the prophets of old,” there comes to me a vision of
Reverend Aldace Walker in flowing dressing gown, pitcher in hand, going to
the village pump for his supply of cold spring water. He was loved and
revered by the members of his congregation.
Reverend
Aldace Walker was eventually succeeded by Reverend Elija Huntoon and he by
the Reverend Gamaliel Dillingham, who must have been a very holy man if
one were to judge by the length of his prayers and sermons and his solemn
appearance. It was the Reverend Gamaliel’s custom to begin his Sunday
morning prayer by asking blessings on all those occupying positions of
authority. Beginning with the President of the United States and
continuing down through the entire directory of federal and state
officials; he even threw in a few kings and queens for good measure. I
used to be surprised at the number of notables on his list and at his
lavish prodigality in the bestowal of the Lord’s blessings. If anyone was
overlooked it was no fault of the Reverend Gamaliel, and maybe the Lord
would make up for it somehow.
An apostate by the name of Dannie Foley, manservant of Mrs. Ranney and her
son, Willie, of New York, who summered in Wallingford, put it in his own
way when he said, “Why in the name of Heaven don’t the Reverend Gamaliel
say, ‘God bless them all, black, white, green and yellow’ and let it go at
that?” If left to his own initiative, Dannie would seldom, if ever, have
found his way to the Ranney pew, but attendance at church being part of
his job, he had to sit and take it with as good grace as possible. He
would gladly have collaborated with the Reverend Gamaliel in the
abbreviation of his sermons had he been called upon to do so. I know from
what I heard Dannie say that he thought long sermons
threatened to wreck the country we all hold dear and that they were more
devastating by far than storm or flood.
My own position as I remember it, was a compromise between the
Reverend Gamaliel’s and Dannie’s views, with a gentle leaning toward
Dannie’s. I cannot say that I remember very much that was said by the
ministers of our church during my childhood days. I think their sermons
were “over my head,” but I did enjoy the singing of our mixed quartette
who did far better than might have been expected, and, in the quiet and
refined atmosphere of that old New England Church, my thoughts may have
been raised to a higher plane than would have been the case had I spent my
time elsewhere. There was something peaceful about it all and a sense of
propriety and well-being.
At times my thoughts rose to exalted heights as I pondered the heroic
battles of Frank Nelson, as related in “Frank on a Gun Boat,” and my heart
went out to the good old slave, Cudjoe, in the hair-raising predicaments
in which he found himself as related in the thrilling story, “Cudjoe’s
Cave.” My only regret was that Providence had, for some inexplicable
reason, cast me upon unromantic shores. However, I would make the best of
matters for the time being; perhaps someday I would become either a
soldier, sailor or a locomotive engineer. I might some day enjoy the
privilege of fighting battles and sailing tempestuous seas and then
returning to Wallingford all dressed up in clothes with brass buttons to
dazzle the eyes of Wallingford’s pretty girls, while I appeared to be
supremely indifferent and confined myself strictly to the business of
being a hero. Indulgence in such mental journeys was in no respect
interfered with by the Reverend Gamaliel’s sermons; in tact, my flights of
fancy seemed stimulated by them, and at times the Reverend Gamaliel played
his part in my world of dreamland. In the twinkling of an eye, I could
convert our solemn parson into a wild man of Borneo, or into whomsoever
else I chose. On the whole the church was a very helpful influence.
Possibly at
infrequent times something in the nature of a spirit of reverence
possessed me as I sat in the family pew between
grandfather and grandmother, although my thoughts more frequently flew
away to the hills and my eyes were more frequently fixed on a tree just
outside the window than upon the face of the preacher. Sometimes birds
came and sat upon the branches of the tree and there made love to each
other or quarreled, as their moods might be. They seemed entirely
oblivious of the fact that it was the Sabbath day and that the Reverend
Gamaliel was turning the searchlight of the spirit into the dark recesses
of the souls of the members of the Congregational Church of Wallingford;
little pagans were they.
There was something distinctly New England in the crisp rustle of the
clean, prim dresses of the women, and a fragrance of perfume, sparingly
used, was in the air. If cleanliness is next to Godliness, then New
England women must be among the elect.
Grandmother’s dress was always suitable for the day. Her black silk gown
and the few simple ornaments that went with it, seemed especially
appropriate on Sunday mornings. It served many years as did grandfather’s
Sunday suit and overcoat, his “Sunday-go-to meetings,” so to speak. Did
grandmother have a Paisley shawl? She certainly did. So did Aunt Mel and
all other women whose husbands could afford them. Paisley shawls were
badges of gentility. Aunt Mel also had a sealskin coat; it was given to
her by grandfather. I think Aunt Lib also had a sealskin coat which was
later given by her to Cousin Mary. That made two sealskin coats in one
family. How is that for high?
Grandfather’s every day clothes were well sponged and mended though they
bore evidences of wear and were faded. His every day overcoat was a
familiar sight about town. An older and bigger boy once sneeringly
remarked, “Here comes old Harris with his mouse colored overcoat.” Had I
been big enough to do so, I would have smitten him down. No one knew
better than I why grand father made his clothes last so long. No one knew
better than I that the frugality that characterized his life had a purpose
back of it—the purpose of serving them whom he loved.
Grandmother made herself responsible for the tidy appearance of both
grandfather and myself on Sunday mornings. One of the familiar and homely
sights early in the morning in those days was grandmother giving
grandfather’s ears and neck a scrubbing with a well soaped cloth and
greasing his boots with chicken fat to make them clean, soft and pliable.
One of her wrists was permanently lame due to an injury in former years
and such tasks must have been difficult, but never once did I hear her
complain and grandmother’s lame wrist came in time to mean to me a badge
of honor.
When I
happened to cough during church service, grandmother would hand me a slice
of sweet flagroot prepared by her own hand. The sugar coating was a bit
too sweet and the root itself a bit too bitter but her kindness left its
impression. I have never gotten over my habit of coughing. Spells continue
to come at inopportune times, especially in church, and now it is another
kind hand that plunges into a reticule and emerges with a soothing
lozenge, the hand of my Scotch wife, “Bonnie Jean,” fourth in order of the
balms of John and Annie Thomson of Edinburgh, Scotland.
Toward the latter part of grandfather’s life, he frequently fell asleep
during the sermon and the droning voice of the minister seemed to
aggravate his infirmity. It therefore became my self- imposed task to keep
him awake during the service. I could best accomplish this purpose best by
folding my legs in such a manner as to bring my toe into proximity to his
foot which also was ex tended. My toe frequently touched his a score of
times during the course of the long-drawn out sermons and it seems to me
now that my toe must have acted from force of habit rather than from any
deep-seated conviction that grandfather could find more stimulation in the
sermon than in the lovely little catnaps from which I so frequently awoke
him.
There were two semi-sacred days, if that term can be used, Thanksgiving
Day and Fast Day. Church services were held in the morning on both days at
the customary hour. We were told at the Thanksgiving Day service how
thankful we should be and why;
no mention being made however, of the prospective turkey dinner, the very
heart’s core of Thanksgiving Day. I thought that at least a passing
mention should have been made of the “Turkey and Chicken Shoot” going on
almost within hearing distance.
For the benefit of those who have never seen a New England “turkey and
chicken shoot,” I will say that in my day, it cost ten cents for a shot at
a chicken and twenty-five cents for a shot at a turkey; the birds going to
those who succeeded in drawing blood. Certain thrifty Vermont farmers, not
hampered by church-going habits, made it a business to market their flocks
in this manner and they saw to it that it required exceptional
marksmanship to bag a bird. The birds were tied to stakes on a hill side
which seemed to me to be miles away. Exceptional marksmen were sure of
their birds but they were not permitted to repeat. Others seldom drew
blood and it was their dimes and quarters that made turkey and chicken
shoots profitable to their sponsors.
Fast Day had slipped considerably from the rigors of
Colonial times; in fact, the feasts of Fast Day had become their
distinguishing feature. Owing to the fact that Fast Day dinners were
served after church service, they were usually good. I heartily believed
in Fast Days and thought that their observance should be kept up. Church
going on Fast Day was elective in our household and I did not elect to
attend.
