The Oakford Methodist Church

I used to take Bible School classes here, although I really can't imagine why. We weren't Methodist. We were barely Catholic. Mom and I, every 6 months or so would drive to Chandlerville for their speedy Saturday afternoon service . . . in and out in 25 minutes. Maybe Mom put me in Bible School because she needed a place for me to go for an hour or two a day and the Bible School was free. I don't remember much, other than feeling really uncomfortable all the time and wishing I didn't have to be there. I didn't know any of the songs or stories that the other kids knew, and I felt like I was on the outside of some big inside joke.

When I get uncomfortable, I get hot, especially my ears. I have a disorder that I've self-diagnosed, called Oakford Red Ear. I'm the only person I know who gets this. For a variety of reasons, my left ear lights up like a light bulb. I could guide a Christmas Eve sleigh through whiteout conditions with that ear. I remember having a frequent case of Red Ear when I was at Bible School. I used to sit as far back in this one corner of the room as I possibly could, hiding my face behind my hands, my left ear illuminating the whole back half of the room.

There was a distinct wood smell in the church and a mustiness that I'll never forget. I remember that my teacher, Ms. Bowman was mean as hell. One day Mom and I were driving through town, and we drove by Ms. Bowman's house. I got excited and wavedwavedwaved as children are wont to do. Bowman looked right at me, frowned, and looked away shaking her head. I just thought she didn't notice me, but then I looked at my mom, and I could see the word BITCH written on her furrowed brow. I knew then that teacher had done a bad, bad thing. It was hard to get my mom riled up, but being mean to her kids was certainly a good way to get started.

Every year around Thanksgiving, members of the church put on a Thanksgiving meal. You could stop by the church and pick up meals for your family for a small fee. I looked forward to that Thanksgiving meal every year, and I think everyone in the family did. It was our version of take-out. Once a year, we'd go to the church and bring home a steaming made-from-scratch meal that was better than anything we'd have made at home. There were slices of oven roasted turkey breast, mashed potatoes and gravy, noodles, green beans, and these delicious white soft rolls.

We didn't really get much chance to order take-out in Oakford. Every once in awhile, Mom and Dad would decide to get a pizza from the tavern. Mom would drive, and I'd run in and tell whoever was tending the bar that we wanted a sausage and pepperoni Red Baron to go. Then, I'd sit at the bar talking to the regulars while I waited for it to cook. Mom would sit outside with the car running, like she was the getaway driver in an elaborate heist. Getting food from the tavern was kind of like a heist, too, since Grandpa owned it, and we therefore never paid for a pizza in our life. I certainly don't remember cash ever changing hands. Other than those free pizzas, we had no options for takeout. Growing up in Oakford, you made dinner at home. That was it.

The last time I was at the Methodist Church, I went there for a dinner following my Great Uncle Jim's funeral. His family and friends packed the basement full, everyone sitting on metal folding chairs and crowded around long tables. We stuffed our faces family style as it seems people always do in church basements, and we passed the time telling stories and joking. I had a chance to visit with many relatives I'd not seen in years and haven't seen since. Several of us reminisced over coffee and apple pie with a pang of guilt over how far we've grown apart over the years, and we made false promises to do a better job of staying in touch. Three years have now passed, and we haven't stayed in touch. Oh well, I guess there'll always be the next funeral.