3. More About Papa

A partially grass-grown, graveled lane led from the wide front gate, which was never closed, past the south side of the house, and on to the weather-beaten barn. Beside the lane, and opposite to the spacious side verandah, was a small wooden platform, about three feet high, with a few steps attached. This was a mounting block, intended mostly for ladies who rode on sidesaddles.

When Papa went down to the crossroads store for the mail and The Cincinnati Enquirer and perhaps some groceries, he would lead Flora to the mounting block. I do not know whether he could have hoisted himself into the saddle without this assistance; probably not.

He always wore his second-best frock coat and a high topper, known at that time as a “plug” hat. I surmise that an equestrian who turned out in such a rig today would draw a crowd. And, even then, Papa’s erect, august figure, riding in formal attire on a lonely country road, must have brought the neighbors to their front windows.

But however much the farmers may have viewed the majestic newcomer at first sight with awed amazement, they were soon to learn that he meant to be one of them. He would lift the dignified plug hat and wave to the countrymen in their fields or lounging in their barnyards. I doubt whether they returned his salute on the first occasion but it was not long until they were waving back to him. Sometimes they would be on the lookout for his return and he would find them busying themselves at their front gates. He would pull Flora up to the fence. Perhaps the farmer’s wife, with a gingham sunbonnet loosely tied under her chin and dangling down her back, would stroll out to join them; and their boys and girls too.

Papa soon became the chaplain for our whole neighborhood. He visited their sick, married their grown sons and daughters, buried their dead. They came to the Hopeful Church, only four miles away where, it was said (for I was too little to be interested in that), they felt at home, regardless of the religious denomination with which their fathers had been affiliated.

My papa’s sermons, then and always thereafter, were not dogmatic. They effortlessly avoided the polemic issues that had so frequently made otherwise kindhearted people despise their neighbors who militantly stood for tweedledee but stubbornly rejected tweedledum. As I remember my papa’s easily understandable homilies, when I was grown old enough to think seriously about them, they were strangely reminiscent of the hillside sermons which attracted great crowds in Galilee. They were illustrated with parables taken from everyday life. “A certain man had two sons, and the younger of them said unto his father, ‘Give me the portion that falleth to me.'” The people could see that picture clearly. If either of the two sons was restless to get away from the old place, it would be the younger. They had known such cases. My papa, instead of beginning a sermon with a quotation from Martensen’s Systematic Theology, would be likely to say, “Last Thursday, while we were waiting at a blacksmith shop in Florence for our horses to be shod, a few of us were talking about James Blodgett, and the friendly way he had with horses. One man said the horses seemed to know that Jim wouldn’t hurt them by carelessly paring a hoof too far. Jim knew his business, another man said. And as I rode home, it occurred to me that a man so mindful of his duties that even the horses of the community were on his side, is giving as good an account of his stewardship as any man can in a public office.” Then would follow a beguiling talk about making the best use of our talents, whatever they were. The next time Papa rode into town to have Flora’s shoes reset, Jim said, when the job was done and the customer had brought out his well-worn coin purse, “I reckon that won’t cost you-all anything, Reverend… Here: let me give you-all a leg up… Thanks, Reverend; come again.”