Already Gone - Sunday Mornings

Sunday Mornings

The best times of all were the first days of summer vacations from school, fishing at Bluestone Dam with my Dad, picnics with the whole family at Fitzpatrick Park, matinees at the Lyric theatre in uptown Beckley and summer Sunday mornings. The first day of summer vacation was always good. I felt free, newly liberated and powerful. I could do anything, take on any adventure that might come my way or that I could find with my friends. But there was something about Sunday mornings that cause me to pause and reflect on how easy life was then.

Sunday mornings were when Mom would start up the meals for the day. Fried chicken, rice and gravy for breakfast and supper or a nice round steak tenderized with Dad’s hammer, beaten through a towel, then flour coated and fried in the same manner as fried chicken. Then, of course, was Mom’s three layer cakes, from scratch as no coal miners wife would touch a box cake in those times.

All this was going on before Sunday school or church started. A big breakfast was always prepared on Sunday morning as we must have needed all that nourishment to get us through to the time after church.

The church was located near the top of the highest hill in this coal mining town of Skelton, W. Va..  It was the ‘colored camp’ church as we called it then. The white camp had its own church at the other end of Skelton. Not much integregation in those days, even amongst those professing to serve God.  The town was bi-sected by two roads and a railroad; all parallel to each other. One was a dirt road, the other a paved road that carried most of the through traffic. The railroad carried a coal train that came through two to three times week and never on Sunday.

Our house was at the farthest end of the dirt road, house number 100. The railroad lay ten yards or so beyond the dirt road and the paved or ’high road’ lay 20 yards beyond and 12 feet or so higher elevation than the railroad line. All three had to be crossed by the folks living on our side of the dirt road in order to go most anywhere in Skelton except the company store.

Getting to church was no real task for us youngsters, but must have been a real pain for the older ones. You see, once you crossed the ‘high road’ there was no road or path for cars leading up to the church. We had to climb the pretty steep hill, walk through other folks’ yard and then climb 15 to 16 steps to get into the building. My brother and his friend Sonny were, for a time, the church janitors and bell ringers. One or both of them had to show up early to ring the bells that indicated when a service or Sunday school was starting or ending. The bell would ring loud and clear and could be heard from anywhere in town. In their over exuberance, sometimes, pulling the bell rope too much would end up with the bell flipping over a full 360, winding the rope around the bell crank. Someone would have to climb into the belfry and un-flip the bell.

Sunday mornings meant a clean crisp smell in the air, somebody’s rooster crowing in the near distance, green trees and calmness not felt on any other day besides Sunday. Dad was always the most rested and not busy with this or that. Mom was cooking her best, getting us off to Sunday school then dressing her best and following an hour or so later for church services.

Sunday was when I could dress up in my suit coat or sport jacket, wearing it open like ‘Jed Clampet’ used to in the Beverly Hillbillies TV show. I used to think that was cool. When I would try to walk like Jed along the railroad track, Mr. Whitlow would see me and I believe that was when he thought I looked like a drunk man walking, hence the nickname ‘Drunky Man’

I don’t remember Dad going to church, though I’m told that he was very active at one time. That’s another part of this story.

The family left Skelton when I was 11 years old. The arms of some of those who climbed the hill to church with us were still waving when last I looked out the back window of the car. I never was able to get that Sunday morning feeling again. I was never at home again. I searched for it, home, Sunday mornings over the years. For the next 42 years this longing for home and Sunday mornings remained in my heart. Feeling lost, not really fitting in; no matter where I was. I looked around, in places all over this country and began to realize – how much of me was already gone.