I didn’t know that in order to leave one Baptist church and get into another (and keep your good standing) you had to walk down the would-be new church’s aisle, declare your intentions and instruct their church clerk to write your old church clerk a letter (on her own church’s stationery) and request this letter. Good heavens I thought after my mom had explained all this to me, I wondered what other secrets concerning wellbeing and heaven-going I hadn’t been told about.

She assured me that our whole family would make this lonesome trip to the front. Even my two little sisters. They would qualify for nothing. They would just go because mom knew they would throw a wild hissy fit if she tried to leave them in the pew and would make a scene, chasing us down the aisle anyway. So, they would go, too.

My ordeal with the church letter was only a small matter among many precipitated by our move 12 miles west down HWY-3. From Centrahoma to Stonewall. It was toward the end of October 1944. WWII still raged in Europe and with the Japs in the Pacific, but my local concerns overshadowed those. My sudden exit from Centrahoma and its schools and its outdoor pit toilets and small classes had been traumatic enough. Entry to Stonewalls 5 ^th grade (they had their own room) was overwhelming. The class was overcrowded. Nearly 50 kids were crowded into one room. There were no more desks. Mr. Fowler the janitor spent nearly an hour finding me one. I was 9.

The several minutes I spent standing up alone in front of those thuggish looking 5 ^th grade Longhorns were some of the longest minutes of my life. My 8-month along pregnant teacher, Mrs. Elliott tried to be nice but I knew I was just about her last straw. I felt about as welcome as a hair in a biscuit. And that was the best part of that day. Back to my church letter.

My older (but little wiser) brother Gerald had offered to take me over to our newest prospective church home but when we got to the unlocked building, I wouldn’t go in. I’m not sure why. But as it was, Sunday morning rolled around. Mom got us all about as scrubbed as we had ever been and dressed us in decent new clothing. The church had like a hundred classrooms for Sunday School classes. I survived that and was soon happily rejoined with the rest of my somewhat nervous family.

The church seemed overly large and tall. Its high ceiling accented by a large hanging light fixture which, had it fallen, would have killed us all. A large square area defined the church’s floor plan with two “alcoves” on its sides with two pews in each. A choir loft with a piano on one side and an organ on the other set the whole thing off. That very night they had a baptismal service. Much to my horror, a large section of the floor swung up revealing a black pool of water beneath the floor. A pit. Behind all that, sheets were drawn across the back ensuring the baptized some privacy, but I noted you could still see (thanks to the lights back there) their silhouettes. Exciting times in our new church.

Of much importance, I knew my “letter” was safely placed in the FBC Stonewall. I didn’t know exactly where, and I would have like to read it and check it out for any errors but never was allowed to. The main thing was this. All those strangers quickly became my best friends and neighbors and the crowding problems at the school vanished the next year when two nearby refineries closed and Stonewalls school census was drastically reduced.

All five of the Bullard kids made it through the Stonewall school system with few if any regrets. Well, perhaps a few on the part of the school.

Have a good week and be sure and go to church Sunday. Even if you live over in Stonewall.

Wayne Bullard, DPh

cwaynebullard@gmail.com