“Precious Memories, How They Linger…”: My First Church

Summer 1959.  Bill, Marge & Debbie Dykhuis; Mrs. Erickson (pastor’s wife) with baby; and Gordon, Harriet & Trish Short.  Pastor Erickson presiding over the babies’ dedications at St. Vincent EFC

I remember vividly being a child attending services at the St. Vincent Evangelical Free Church.  I remember a small, cozy sanctuary, with tiled ceilings, drop lights with opaque fixtures.  I remember hard wood pews (swinging little short legs, accidentally too hard and kicking the pew in front of me, then on purpose, then getting taken outside for a “talk”), and humble but inspiring communion tables at the center front, always supplied with fresh flowers by the ladies of the church on a rotational basis.  The candles, the offering plates with their red velvet lining.  The offering plates that as they passed, as you passed them along, made you feel obligated to give something.  Paper was always better than coins.  Paper meant a substantial donation, something you could feel proud of, and you could feel others would notice and you felt better for it.  Pride wasn't the goal, but it was often felt and thought of by more than a few, sitting in those pews.  

Families had their places, their pews.  We didn't sell pews as some churches did, but it was an unspoken assumption where families would sit.  So-and-so's family always sat on the left, by the aisle, seven rows back.  This family always sat on the right and towards the middle, on the third pew back on the right side of the church.  They were an important family for our church, the family that gave the most, and thus it was logical they sat near the front.  Other families that could not give as much, or felt a bit unwelcome but still felt strongly about attending church, sat further back, and slipped out first after the service, avoiding having to talk to others in the congregation.  

There were the women and men who worked tirelessly, being part of the Ladies' Aid, the Deacons, the Ushers.  Or they taught Sunday School, Vacation Bible School, produced/printed up the weekly bulletins, or led prayers at services.  Others who were musically-inclined, did special numbers, or played the organ or piano to accompany choirs, singers, or for the congregation as they sang the old hymns.  Hymns that rang out each Sunday morning and night, and Wednesday night prayer service, strong and true.  We sang with gusto, and we sang in harmony, and sometimes just singing became a spine-tingling spiritual experience and tears would come to your eyes.  Although I haven’t attended that church since 1968 (or any church since 1994), I can still remember all the melodies and words to those precious, old hymns, and often sing them around my house to this day.  And of course the potluck dinners in the basement!

Then there was the after-service visiting.  I remember so well as a little girl, wanting to get over to my grandma's right away, because I knew there was a delicious meal waiting for us.  It was a tradition for my family, you see, to go to my grandpa and grandma's house every week for a Sunday dinner.  Dinner was not an evening meal where I grew up.  It was a midday meal, while Supper was eaten at night.  Lunch was used for things like school, but at home it was not.  Anyways, back to after-service-visiting…

It was also, unfortunately for myself as a little girl, a weekly tradition for the adults to visit after church services.  There were a few that kept it to a minimum, but pretty much everyone participated.  I often noticed that my family were one of the last ones to leave, much to my chagrin!

There was an unspoken etiquette to the visiting, too.  Like the Stages of the Cross, it began as the benediction ended and everyone rustled, grabbed their purses, children, or coats; then they stood, often in-place in the pews, sometimes sliding out to the aisles, and a few words were spoken.  Church business, asking after someone, catching up on news.  Then the inevitable journey through the crowd towards the minister, where you would tell him what you thought of the sermon, and he would shake your hand and wish you well.  

If it was winter, everyone would stop to get their coats and boots, which gave over to more visiting.  Men would go start cars to warm up a bit while ladies waited and often visited some more.  In summer, there was more visiting by everyone - besides what was already mentioned, there were the chats on the tall front steps, the lawn chats, the between car chats, and sometimes even the in-the-car-with-the-window-rolled down chats.  I’d often think to myself, “Will it ever end?” I’m joking (somewhat), because if I was fortunate, there might be one or two families with kids my age still there that I could play games with or at least hang out with, but often not. For us in-town families that didn’t have to travel anywhere, no need to hurry off.  

Last of all, there were the inevitable talkers that you couldn’t get away from; some seemed to have a talent for drifting when  you thought you had a way out and then suddenly they would speed up again, and it was like you were pinned down simply by the sound of their voice and couldn’t get away!  Thoughts of Grandma’s roast chicken and gravy tortured me as I stood there suffering. Of course, we always got to eat her amazing meals, which she kept warm no matter how long the visiting took.

I can see, in my mind’s eye, every corner of that little, humble church.  I remember sanctuary windows being opened by ushers during hot summer Sundays, to let welcome breezes in.  I remember fussing babies and toddlers taken by young parents to the nursery during services, a separate small room between the sanctuary and the foyer.  I remember the basement where there was a kitchen, but the main area was open, and used for Sunday school ‘rooms’ separated by curtains; during potluck meals, folder tables and chairs were set up in the same space for dining.  I remember what the old pulpit looks like, and the two flags on poles on either side, behind it, along the wall - the American flag, and the Christian flag.

It was both an exciting day, and a sad day, when our congregation had their last service in St. Vincent, and soon after, the first service in Pembina.  Time marches on, but I will never forget my first church where I began my journey of faith…

"...and the switchboard suddenly lit up."

Mom was working for Ma Bell when the Japanese struck Pearl Harbor…

Harriet  had gone down from home to stay with her big sister Alberta, fondly known as ‘Pat’ (a nickname given her years ago as a shortened monicker for her maiden name, Fitzpatrick…)  She wanted to find a job and get a taste of independence now that she was a high school graduate, so she joined Pat and Pat’s husband John, who had recently moved to Bemidji.  There was word that Northwestern Bell Telephone Company was hiring switchboard operators there.  It wasn’t long before Harriet was learning the ropes of literally connecting calls, how to switch calls without losing them, etc.  It was tricky, but fun once you got the hang of it.

On the morning of December 7, 1941, she was working at her switchboard in downtown Bemidji, when the board lit up.  She knew something serious must have happened, but she - along with the rest of the country and world - was about to learn of an unpredictable, horrific truth:  The surprise bombing attack on Pearl Harbor, the resulting destruction of the U.S. Navy’s 7th fleet, and over 3580 casualties. She told me years later it was a flood of calls that came in, in a short period of time - she was almost on automatic as she used every trick in her newly trained noodle to keep up. That morning was imprinted on her memory, something she never forgot.

Red Rose Revisited

I grew up with this tea. Every meal – breakfast dinner and supper – a big pot of red rose tea was made and drank by all of us, sometimes two pots. Our families consumption of Tea made me a confirmed “Tea Granny”, what my mom dubbed me as a little girl. I would slurp every spoonful with gusto, having three spoonfuls of sugar in every cup and a good dollop of milk to boot…

The Ways of the Past: Harvesting

When I was little, you saw wheat swathed, then you saw it combined like this. I saw many fields harvested like this growing up, even small fields right around my home in north St. Vincent. Mr. Bordeniuk, who lived just a half block south of us, had two small fields by our place - one directly west of the house between us and Philip Cameron's, and one north and a bit northeast between us and where the dike was. 

Believe it or not, he used to seed these fields the old way, by hand-casting the seed out of a big sling bag hung around his shoulders and laying again his chest. I watched him do this myself more than once. He had a rhythm, alternately grabbing seed with his right and left hands as he slowly walked, casting the seed in arcs. His skill in seeding this way was proven as the plants emerged and you saw an even field, no gaps or crowding. 

Before I had horses and fenced most of our pasture in, Philip Cameron hayed our pasture each year. In a good year, he was able to get two cuttings off of it; he used some of the same methods to cut the hay into rows that he would go over with again with a baler, to make into small square bales. He had seeded it in a mixture of timothy and alfalfa. Between his small fields behind his home - which bordered against the Red River - and our hay land, he was able to feed his dairy and beef cows. He and his wife lived a 'sustainable' life way before that became the modern term it means now. Years ago, many in St. Vincent lived that way. It was a simple, but GOOD life...

Long Ago & Not Far Away

I cannot believe how many years have passed by...on days like this, beautiful June sunny days I think of riding out under the sun and then I remember no, those days are gone, but boy I wish they weren't. 

I can still smell my horse's sweat and the leather of the saddle. 

Sarina, knee deep in clover, alfalfa, and timothy.

Summer 1973, it was her first day at our place in the new pasture that Dad & Ed Falk helped put up corner posts on. The tiny barn that was once my grandparents' garage up here then down at their uptown home, now brought back to where it started...but this time on the old barn's foundation - with a fresh coat of oil-based paint courtesy of my Dad.

Dad was my right-hand man in getting everything ready for my dream-come-true that I had worked so hard to save money for ...

a HORSE!

Weighted Blankets, Heavy Quilts

"Weighted Blankets" - I grew up with them. 

We called them homemade quilts made out of Mom's old polyester double-knit pant suits. 

Trust me, they were "weighted" (read: heavy!)

Mom's Secret Weapon

My cat Dusty - who loved me to pieces just like I loved him - was sent like a guided missile by my Mom every morning to push me OUT of bed. First Mom would yell up the stairs for me to wake up and get up, I'd eventually mumble, " getting up." I lied and Mom knew it. She'd yell again. Then I'd hear her call Dusty and I'd hear him run up the stairs a-thump-a-thump-a-thump...He'd jump on the bed, and come and STAND on me and start making serious biscuits...About that time I would surrender, laugh, pet him and get up.