7. The Old Home

What I had started to say, before making this detour, was that our midwestern country people, sixty years ago, were almost solidly “Nonconformist” in their religious beliefs and practices. No long-experienced Episcopacy counseled them about their leadership. Almost any pious-toned stranger, with a gift of gab and a long-tailed coat, could organize a summer camp meeting or a midwinter revival. The older folks were converted and reconverted; the younger ones attended the meetings for the entertainment they provided, such as an epidemic of unintelligible gibberish gifted to some who were able to “speak with tongues.” And there would be trances, too. One journeyman evangelist gave a select few what he called “the third work.”

Once, when I was still a small boy, I attended a prayer meeting with Uncle Worth. It was an off season for “big meetin’s,” and only a few old folks limped in. They prayed long and loud for the unsaved youth of the community. It was customary, on such occasions, for the despairing oldsters to sing, “Where is my Wandering Boy Tonight?”

But, had some wayward, misdirected youngster, suddenly made discontented with his bad habits and evil companions, looked about him for guidance to a brighter, better way of life, he certainly would not have consulted these morose products of “the third work.”

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We went to an ungraded school in October, in the little red brick schoolhouse only a stone’s-throw from the old home. Our teacher was a friendly, inexperienced young lady from Albion, our county seat. Her attitude toward the little kids was maternal and they loved her. Perhaps she would have done well with a roomful of six-year-olds.In her attitude toward the older boys and girls, some of whom were of her own age, she was self-conscious and recklessly chummy.

It soon became her custom to remain at her desk during the recess period, the bigger boys and girls huddled about her, but it was not long until the older girls were appearing on the playground at recess, and were not co-operating pleasantly in their school work. Then one of the older boys, who was gently stroking a small mustache, took over at recess, releasing all the other older boys for out-of-door exercise. It was apparent that these love-birds were unaware that anybody had noticed. The hard-hit young man frequently found something in his Arithmetic that puzzled him and would go to the teacher for help. It became habitual for all the other scholars, even down to the tots, to scrape their feet on the floor while these private conferences were in session. It goes without saying that our teacher had lost her authority. Her pupils were quite out of control. Clyde and I did not go back to school after the Christmas holidays. Papa and Mama, not having much to do, seemed to enjoy teaching us at home.

Then spring came on with a hop, skip and jump, as it always does in Indiana. Papa bought a friendly but lazy old farm horse for a song. We borrowed a plow, and planted a large, productive garden. We all worked like slaves that summer, and it was a good thing we did, for Mama canned great quantities of food which gave us a chance to save a little money.

Again the autumn days arrived. Again my brother and I brought home big buckets of wild berries. We went nutting and fishing. We were tanned the color of an old saddle. Clyde was physically fit as a fiddle. School “took up” with a middle-aged man in charge. He was not much of an inspiration but he kept order.

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