Читать книгу Martha Ruth, Preacher's Daughter: Her Journey Through Religion, Sex and Love - Marti Eicholz - Страница 5

My father was appointed pastor of the twin churches of Elnora and Epsom in the southwestern part of Indiana. The topography of southern Indiana is varied and complex, with large tracts of forest, rolling fields, sharp hills, and flat valleys. Southern Indiana has a number of small, quaint, charming towns. Every county is bordered by a river. Streams and creeks are abundant. The village of Elnora sprang into existence with the completion, in 1885, of the Evansville & Indianapolis Railroad. It promised to become an important point for the buying and shipping of corn, wheat, and other farm products. There was a post office, stores, an ice house, a school, and the church. Epsom had a half-dozen dwellings, stores, a post office, and a schoolhouse. It was given its name because the water from a well in the hamlet was thought to resemble the famous Epsom salt in taste.

Each village had a church, and they needed to share a minister. We lived in Elnora. Our house was small, with an outhouse (outside toilet), a small garage, a side garden, and train tracks that angled from the back of the house toward the side. We were in a community, settled in one place and ready to start a new way of life. I don’t remember anything about the churches or their members, but I do remember my dad taking a side job working on the railroad. Mom would pack his lunch in a black metal lunch box. Dad would not eat all of his lunch; he would save something for me. So when he returned from work, I would sit on his knee, and we would share his last bites. The trains were close to the house, and the noise frightened me to the point that I would run and hide under my dad’s desk until they passed.

On my birthday, I received a velvet coat and hat, which I would wear on our holiday visit to my grandparents—first the Hine family, then Grandfather and Grandmother Hertel.

Allergies developed. Summer arrived, and so did a runny nose and sneezing. This condition would come and go. Then, after a bout of runny nose and sneezing, a little cough started, then fever, followed by weeks of severe coughing fits. Diagnosis: whooping cough, a highly contagious bacterial disease. One hundred days of coughing. At times, the cough caused exhaustion, and other times I wanted to see some sun and the outdoors, and not confinement. So I opened the door, looked out, and BANG, on came a cough. I was told that I had given whooping cough to the entire neighborhood. Had I? Who really knows? But it weighed heavily on me.

Playmates were practically nonexistent. The children next door were forbidden. They were poor and dirty, and their father was dying of cancer. I thought, so what? They needed a friend. I needed a friend. Occasionally, we met in the side yard and made mud pies, talked, and giggled.

My mother developed a friendship with the lady across the street. They would sit in her backyard and chat. I realized my mother needed more than me and my dad, and my dad was not around much.

There were times when the three of us were shopping, visiting, or at church, and my parents thought that I was being naughty and deserved a spanking when we got home. They would announce, “When we get you home, you are going to get a spanking.” I did not want the agony of waiting, so I would turn, flip my skirt up, bend over, and state, “Give it to me now. Let’s get this over with and move on.”

I don’t remember the two of us, my mother and me, doing much together. In other words, I don’t remember walks, talks, reading, touching, holding, or the kinds of things I would want for my baby, who is now a toddler.

I do remember the three of us returning home from visiting a parishioner’s home. We called these “visitations” or “making calls.” I was in the backseat of the car leaning against the car door while tying my shoelaces. My dad swung around a corner, the door flew open, and out I tumbled. Seeing them heading down the road, I started jumping up and down yelling for their return. The resident on the corner brought a wash basin with warm, soapy water out to the porch, and my mother patted my dirty, scared face, arms, and legs.

On another visitation, the house was perched on a high hill. The view of the green valley in the distance was stunning. As I stood gazing at the beauty of it all, a huge dog jumped on me, knocked me to the ground, and licked my face. I screamed out of fright and stomped around stating, “I don’t like dogs, and I don’t like cats.” I didn’t like the rush, the attack, and the feeling of being afraid. I was scared. Loud noises, yelling words, and aggressive animals alarmed me.

On special occasions, we would have homemade ice cream made using ice and salt and by churning the creamy mixture with a crank. It was a hot summer day, and I thought ice cream would taste so good. So let’s have a surprise—my very first time trying to surprise and hopefully please or delight someone, or at least just have some fun. Pulling my red wagon, I headed across the railroad tracks and up the slope to the ice house and asked the guys for a block of ice. I had no money, but somehow they gave me the ice. A real con job! With ice in tow, I headed home proud and happy; but my mother became hysterical, shouting, “How could you do this?” “How are we going to pay?” “It’s melting!” There were no preparations for making ice cream. I don’t recall the outcome. Truthfully, I am glad I don’t. I do remember thinking we were poor, just like the kids next door.

One afternoon, we were expecting one of the couples from the church to go to some dress-up event.

I was excited, dressed in my finest, and wearing my new white shoes. My mother made all my clothes, and they were special. While we were waiting, I strolled out to the side garden and for some reason decided to walk through it, only to get stuck in the mud up to above my ankles. I could not move. As I stood there, I saw our friend’s truck coming down the street. I waved and yelled to be rescued. The next thing I knew, I was being stripped of my clothes, washed up, and put to bed. I felt so embarrassed and ashamed. All I had wanted was to have some fun, but now I wanted to hide; so I put the covers over my head and cried myself to sleep.

The time had come for Elnora to receive telephone service. The streets were filled with workmen, trucks, poles, wires, and ladders. The workmen dug holes, pounded poles into the ground, pulled and extended the wiring, and attached the wires to the house. The rectangular, wooden structure called a “telephone” was attached to the inside wall of the kitchen.

It was a thrilling time—picking up the receiver, waiting for the operator, and giving the name or number of the person you wanted to talk to, or just picking up the receiver and listening to a neighbor’s conversation.

My father often had preaching engagements in the evenings. One of those nights, my dad and I went alone. A song by Harry D. Clarke written in 1924 was sung:

“Into my heart, into my heart,

Come into my heart, Lord Jesus

Come in today, come in to stay

Come into my heart, Lord Jesus.”

That night, I gave myself to Jesus and let Jesus come into my heart. I believe he is still there. I have never told him to leave. Afterwards, I went to the car and waited for my father, and we drove home in silence. But I have always remembered the song and that evening.