Most community events occurred in one of five places – at either of Acton’s two
churches, the school, the tabernacle, or the cemetery. The churches, school, and tabernacle were
located between “town” and the cemetery.
On the east side of the road was the Methodist church, joined on the
south by school property, then the tabernacle.
Across the road from the school and tabernacle was the Baptist church,
joined just to the south by the old rock school, then the cemetery. One could participate in all community
activities, from first grade to his funeral and burial, within a space of a few
hundred yards.
◊◊◊
Acton had relatively few residents, so its
two churches were small and financially weak; neither had a full-time
pastor. The Methodists attended Baptist
worship activities on the Sundays our pastor was in town, and we Baptists
worshipped with the Methodists on the Sundays their pastor was in Acton. I remember Sundays with no worship, when we
went home after Sunday School; those were probably “fifth Sundays,” when
neither half-time pastor was scheduled to preach.
Acton is only thirty-five miles from Fort Worth, the home of
Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary, so our church ordinarily
called a seminary student for its pastor.
The only pastor I remember was Brother Leland Turner, a World
War I veteran who wore high-topped shoes (he had shrapnel injuries to his feet
and ankles). He was a graduate of the
School of Agriculture at Texas A & M, and had served as our County Agent
(doing such things as assisting Hood County farmers in terracing their fields)
before entering the ministry. He was
also pastor of the church at Fall Creek, just a few miles south
of Acton.
Brother
Turner was unable to be at Fall Creek one Sunday, so he asked a seminary friend
to handle his preaching duties. The
friend caught a ride to Acton on Saturday morning, then had to wait all
afternoon and part of the evening for a ride to Fall Creek, during which wait
he bought and ate two BB Bats (a soft, paper-wrapped chocolate-flavored candy
on a stick), paying for them with two pennies.
The next day he fainted while preaching; after being revived he
disclosed that those two BB Bats had comprised his entire food intake on Saturday; he had no money
other than those two pennies. He spent
Sunday night at the Grammer (my grandparents’) place, then my mother and dad
took him back to Fort Worth on Monday; he was well-fed Sunday evening and
Monday morning, but probably returned home to near-destitution. The Depression was truly hard on some folks.
I learned the meaning of the word “grant” while listening to Brother
Turner lead in prayer; he earnestly and repeatedly implored the Lord to grant
His blessings to our church and its members.
I also learned a sermon can be brief, when after a quarterly church
conference (business meeting) took up most of a Sunday morning worship period,
Brother Turner noted the lateness of the hour, then referred us to a three word
phrase (“God is love”) in verses 8 and 16 of chapter 4 of I John, pronounced
the benediction, and dismissed us. One
remembers a sermon of that brevity, and I’ve never forgotten that “God is
love.”
Brother
Turner had three children – Shirley, Doris, and Leland, Jr. He was a single parent for some time
following the death of his first wife, but ultimately decided he would like to
marry again. Seeking assurance about
the theological propriety of remarriage, he consulted Mr. Farmer,
a retired preacher who lived in the Acton community and attended our church;
Mr. Farmer found nothing contrary to scripture in Brother Turner’s plans, so
marriage with Miss Daphne (a Granbury lady) soon followed.
Mr. Farmer
and his widowed daughter, Mrs. LaDone, lived on a farm a couple of miles
southwest of Acton, toward Shady Grove. They raised sorghum cane, from which they made molasses. I was fascinated by their sorghum mill and
its cooking troughs, and dug models of those troughs in the soft earth near our
water tank at home, using muddy water for my “sorghum.”
My
dad and Virgil were among Acton residents who “sat up with” Mr. Farmer at night
during his final illness. I can
remember similar times when they “sat up with” deceased members of the
community at Estes Funeral Home in Granbury.
Brother
Turner’s family didn’t ordinarily come with him on Sundays, but the three kids
occasionally visited my grandparents’ farm, staying a few days. I didn’t speculate then on the reason for
their visits, but I’d guess now that their parents were probably attending
religious retreats or denominational activities. Regardless of the reason for their presence, Twila and I enjoyed
playing with them; Shirley was two or three years older than I, Doris was about
my age, and Leland was younger, so the five of us were generally
age-compatible.
Years
later, son Leland entered Howard Payne College at Brownwood while I was still a
student – probably in 1947/48, my senior year.
◊◊◊
Anyone familiar with Baptist churches knows that music is an important
part of worship. Twila and I enjoyed
the singing, but sometimes misunderstood the message. “Trust and Obey” came through to us as “Trust an Old Maid,” and we heard “Bringing
in the Cheese” instead of “Bringing in
the Sheaves.” We loved the choir’s renditions
of “For He Is So Precious to Me,” particularly enjoying
the chorus:
The
sopranos sang: “For He is so
precious to me,”
The altos
echoed:
“So pre - cious to me.”
That line was repeated, then was followed by the last lines of the
chorus (‘Tis heaven below/My Redeemer to know/For He is so precious to me), but
we noticed most the healthy “’cious to me” coming from the altos following the
soprano lead on the first two lines.
Away from church, Twila and I each sang from both parts, at the top of
our voices, “For He is so precious to me, ‘cious to me/For He is so precious to
me, ‘cious to me/Tis heaven below my Redeemer to know/For He is so precious to
me.”
◊◊◊
One winter Sunday an attic fire (the result of an overheated metal flue through the ceiling above
the wood-burning stove) was discovered just as morning worship ended. My dad and Mr. Samuel Lusk, still in their
Sunday clothing, climbed into the attic to fight the fire; it hadn’t progressed
far, so was quickly extinguished. (The
nearest water was over one hundred yards away, across the road, north of the
school building, so we were fortunate little was needed.)
Added excitement ensued when Mr. Lusk fell through the attic access
opening; he fell about ten feet, but suffered no serious injuries. The Lord must have been watching over His
own.
The fire
at the church ignited my youthful imagination.
For many nights I watched for flames licking around the top of the wall
between our sleeping porch and the main part of our house; the wood stove in
the adjoining living room and its pipe through the attic were much like those
at the church.
Later on, perhaps the next winter, the Methodist church had a similar
attic fire; it was also detected
early, and quickly extinguished. No one
was hurt, and I recall no reignition of my flame-filled fantasies at home.
◊◊◊
I didn’t, however, escape all fear of fire, for visions of a fiery
eternity were aroused under the tabernacle during annual summer revivals – two weeks of evangelistic services, morning
and evening, seven days per week. Revivals were community affairs – joint
projects of Baptists and Methodists. We
heard Baptist preaching one year, Methodist preaching the next; Baptists led
the singing when Methodists supplied the preacher, and vice versa.
Visiting
evangelists and singers had to be “put up” and fed by residents of the
community. Each slept and ate breakfast
and supper at only one house for the entire revival period, but they were fed
the main (noon) meal each day at different homes. I don’t know how their “keep” was arranged.
Visiting evangelists sometimes waxed dramatic; my most vivid memory of
a revival preacher was one who, during a sermon about the crucifixion of our
Lord, strode vigorously back and forth across the rostrum exaggeratedly wagging
his head and torso in simulation of scoffers challenging Jesus to save himself
and come down from the cross (Matthew 27:39; Mark 15:29). Twila recalls one (perhaps the same man) who
thundered dire warnings (e.g., “The wages of sin is death!”), without the aid
of electronic amplification. I don’t
know what effects their stentorian histrionics had on adults, but this
impressionable kid got the point.
Other visiting evangelists were merely interesting characters. One, a Baptist, had been a professional
boxer before being called to the ministry.
An older Methodist preacher had a habit of tucking the material of a
trouser leg under the leg of his underwear, creating a horizontal pleat held in
place by his fingers; his habit was distracting and bothersome to my mother.
Most
undershorts worn by men and boys of that day were similar to today’s boxer
shorts; my Granddad Grammer wore one-piece (top and bottom joined),
lightweight, short-sleeved, short-legged BVDs in summer – a warm-weather version of winter’s “long handles.”
As implied above, my awareness of the gospel message began while
attending summer revivals under the Acton tabernacle. Although I listened pretty closely to the
preachers, I was most impressed by song lyrics – particularly those of
invitation, such as “Almost Persuaded” and “O Why Not Tonight.” I can still hear, in my mind’s ear, the
plaintive tones of the revival choir (1) proclaiming the sadness to be incurred
by rejection of the gospel and (2) entreating sinners to respond to the Lord’s
invitation to salvation:
·
From “Almost Persuaded” (I’ve
omitted the first half of each verse, printing only the segments that stuck in
my memory):
Seems now some soul to say, “Go Spirit, go Thy
way,
Some more convenient day, On thee I’ll call.”
Jesus invites you here, Angels are lingering near,
Prayers rise from heart so dear, O wanderer come.
“Almost” cannot avail, “Almost” is but to fail!
Sad, sad, that bitter wail – “Almost, but lost!”
·
From “O Why
Not Tonight:”
O do not let the Word depart, And close thine eyes
against the light
Poor sinner, harden not your heart, Be saved, O
tonight.
O, why not tonight? O, why not tonight?
Wilt thou be saved? Then why not tonight?
Tomorrow’s sun may never rise, To bless thy long
deluded sight,
This is the time, O then be wise, Be saved, O
tonight.
O, why not tonight? O, why not tonight?
Wilt thou be saved? Then why not tonight?
For a long time I didn’t comprehend the message in those words. Be saved?
Saved from what? How? As time passed, and as I learned more about
spiritual matters, I became concerned about specific wrongdoing in my life and
the consequences thereof as described in sermon and song. Conviction gnawed at me until one night,
while I was lying in my bed at home, I realized the Lord offered forgiveness to
any repentant sinner. I wasn’t
theologically astute, so my prayer of repentance consisted of only one word,
“Forgive.” Theologically astute or not,
a little eight or nine year old boy had just found much greater “relief” than
that provided by Rolaids – and I didn’t repeat the wrongdoing about which I was
convicted.
Three or
four years passed before I learned more of the details of God’s plan of
salvation and that one’s belief in, and commitment to, Jesus as Lord should be
publicly confessed (Romans 10:9-10); I made a public profession of faith in Him the year I was in seventh grade.
◊◊◊
Methodists “sprinkled” their converts, at the tabernacle, on the last
day of revival services, but Baptists had to go to nearby Walnut Creek to immerse theirs, usually on a Sunday afternoon soon after
revival services ended.
My dad
made his public profession of faith while I was a young boy, and was among those
immersed later at Walnut Creek.
One year several water moccasins were swimming in the water when we Baptists gathered at the creek
for immersion of those who had made professions of faith; the pastor and
baptismal candidates must have had great faith, for the service proceeded as
planned, with no harm done by the swimming serpents. (That wasn’t the year my dad was baptized.)
Although
numerous professions of faith occurred during summer revivals, I can remember
none ever registered at ordinary Sunday services; it was almost as if one could
be saved only during those annual two-week periods. For years I thought I might have been the only person in the
world who had ever received such an impression, until I heard Dr. Owen Beard, a Sunday
School teacher at Calvary Baptist in Little Rock, say the same thing about the
small Arkansas community in which he grew up (which, if I remember correctly,
was Wabbeseka).
◊◊◊
The community’s annual Christmas Eve program included (1) a pageant presenting the
story of our Lord’s birth and (2) kids’ presentation of “pieces” (e.g., poetry
or some cogent thought) they had memorized.
Smaller kids’ interest in Christmas Eve activities was guaranteed by a
gift-surrounded cedar tree trimmed with strings of popcorn, construction paper
chains, and icicles; Santa Claus appeared after the pageant was over and
distributed oranges, candy, and gifts.
Later, put
to bed, usually at Mama Grammer’s house (which had a chimney and was where the
“real” Santa would come), Twila and I eagerly anticipated the delights of
Christmas morn.
Christmas
at the Grammer house was the highlight of each year for me. Presents weren’t numerous in those
depression years, but I enjoyed what I received; my best Christmas present
while a child was a twenty-five cent cap pistol my parents gave me.
I
always received a package or two of firecrackers. I “blew” tin cans into the air, and my dad showed me how to make
a firecracker cannon, using a short length of pipe for the barrel, wadding, and
a marble for the cannon ball. (I never
popped all my firecrackers on Christmas Day, thinking I would save a few for
enjoyment later; I don’t think I ever got around to popping any I had saved, so
my frugality was wasted.)
Our family
plus Ruth and Virgil were always at the Grammer house for Christmas dinner,
then, in midafternoon we would be joined by “Bud” (i.e., my uncle Walter,
Ruth’s and Mother’s brother) and Essie Marie, who would have spent the earlier
part of the day with Essie Marie’s parents (the Hartis family) at Aquila; their
daughter, Glenda (the second of my three cousins) was born November 1, 1935 and her
presence thereafter further brightened Christmas (and other events) at the
Grammer place.
Mama
Grammer always made boiled custard at Christmas time, and served it with
fruitcake. The adults liked both, but
I’ve never cared for boiled custard, and fruitcake isn’t my favorite dessert.
[Twila
has reminded me that our Miller grandparents didn’t observe Christmas, and
believes their non-observance possibly reflected Papa Miller’s lifestyle, which
resembled a Pennsylvania Dutch farmer (i.e., conservative in dress and spending
habits). It is also possible that their
practices reflected the influence of Church of Christ doctrine, which, if I
understand correctly, downplays celebration of Christmas and Easter because the
exact date of our Lord’s birth is not known, and Easter is named after an
ancient pagan vernal festival.]
◊◊◊
The school building was often the site of community events – Halloween
carnivals, box suppers, pie suppers, musical programs, and plays featuring
“actors” from the community.
One play
provided me with material I adapted to tease Twila. The key scene for me involved an unseen characher named Mabel, who
is presumably upstairs bathing, but fails to appear after a reasonable time, so
one of the characters on stage leaves to investigate; shortly, from offstage
comes a concerned lament, “Oh, my goodness!
Oh, my soul! There goes
Mabel down that hole!”
I
remembered that line, changed the name, and used it regularly: “Oh!
My goodness! Oh, my soul! There goes Twila down that hole!” Twila invariably wailed, “Mother, make Ken
quit; he’s teasing me.”
Mother
always ordered me to stop – and I would, temporarily. When my repeated efforts finally annoyed Mother as much as they
irritated Twila, she would apply my dad’s razor strap to the calves of my legs. The spankings weren’t painful, for Mother
weighed less than one hundred pounds then, so her swing wasn’t vicious. (I was wearing high-topped boots on at least
one such occasion, so didn’t feel the strap strike my calves.)
[I
received few spankings from my dad, because he was seldom present at the times my
behavior warranted corporal punishment.
Twila remembers a time when he spanked us both with his razor strap (for
fussing?), so he must have been at the house on at least that one occasion of
our misbehavior. I remember best his
novel use of a hand saw for punishment; the flexible blade “popped” nicely as
it struck the appropriate portion of my anatomy, but his strokes were always
rather easy, inflicting only minor pain.
(I deserved one spanking I didn’t get, when I borrowed his pocket knife
while I played at the barn as he worked nearby, somehow broke one of the
blades, then put it back in his pocket without telling him what had
happened. Upon discovering the damage,
he asked me about it, but didn’t punish me; he didn’t seem angry, but I suspect
he was disappointed that I hadn’t told him what I’d done.)]
As noted above, local residents usually acted in plays presented at
Acton public facilities; the cast of one play, about a womanless wedding, included
my dad and Virgil. Kids were sometimes
the Thespians, as was the case when
another little boy and I did a skit wherein we lathered and shaved each other,
using a straight razor that looked real, but wasn’t. (My dad made a blunt-edged blade from a piece of aluminum, then
substituted it for the real blade in an old razor, so there was no danger of
our cutting each other.) The skit ended
with our hearing approaching adults; realizing we were about to be caught with
dangerous tools, the wielder of the razor tossed the razor away, and we ran
from the stage.
The little skit was well received at Acton, so we were asked to perform
it at a social event at Granbury’s First Methodist Church. Some Granbury attendees were more gullible
than Acton folks had been, for a few of the ladies thought we were using a real
razor, and were afraid we would hurt each other; then, at the end, when the
razor was tossed high in the direction of the audience, some thought themselves
to be endangered by the flying blade.
◊◊◊
Acton’s cemetery was large, in spite of the relatively small living
population, because it was an old community (people had been dying to get in
for a long time). Inasmuch as
commercially-provided “perpetual maintenance” was unaffordable (and, to my
knowledge, unavailable) during those times, the community had a
“do-it-yourself” maintenance program, which included an annual cemetery working
the first Saturday each May.
I enjoyed those cemetery workings as much as any community event, for current
Acton residents were joined by many former residents; each year we saw friends
and relatives we hadn’t seen since the previous year’s event. The men worked, the kids played, and the
ladies spread dinner on tables under the oak trees near the cemetery’s main
entrance. Acton must have had some of
the world’s best cooks, for those dinners were superb.
The grownups who did the cooking and cemetery cleanup probably didn’t
enjoy the day as much as we kids did, but the fellowship with fellow laborers
seemed to give them pleasure, as did the “Homecoming” held at the nearby
tabernacle the next day; that event included, of course, another dinner on the
ground after Sunday morning worship (with more great food), followed by a
program and singing.
[Elizabeth
Crockett’s gravesite/monument is
located in the Acton cemetery; occupying .01 acre, it is the smallest state
park in Texas. Mrs. Crockett lived in
the Waples community, just north of Acton, from 1853 until her death in 1860,
on land granted by the state of Texas; veterans and widows of veterans of
Texas’ war for independence from Mexico were awarded land after the war, in
compensation for their service/sacrifice.
The monument depicts her standing tall, shielding her eyes, looking into
the distance for her husband, Colonel David Crockett, who would not
return. (My mother and dad were in
school when the monument was completed, and were let out to view the
unveiling.)]