I have seen “church going” change a lot in my years of attendance. I had training on Goat Ridge at a church named Panola that had served as a school house for many years. But the little school house had become empty. Deserted and dark. So the Methodist soon fixed up a church in that building and staffed it with a preacher. The church was led by Mr. Cross and my grandpa, J. T. Bullard, was a part of the leadership in the little church up on Goat Ridge.

A lingering bit of a disagreement pertaining to the school board, on which both men served, affected their fellowship. My grandpa, an unforgiving old gent quit going to church. When I was a lad I didn’t know why my grandpa didn’t walk down to the church with us, but he just didn’t. The Methodist weren’t able to keep up their momentum so other people were allowed to hold fi re and brimstone “revivals” in the building. These meetings were quite the thing back then. Everyone in the community went and enjoyed the singing, preaching and fellowship. The crowd outside the church was about as large as the one inside as several people (mostly men) enjoyed hanging out in the parking area, tending to their wagons and teams and visiting.

People felt free to wander in and out of the little church at Panola and did. Popular were the men who brought refreshments to this group and some were quite merry when the service would fi nally play out and end. I don’t know how some of these guys were able to get a crop out after such an intense social life. The tone and type of revivals was set a lot by the preachers and the group who called him. But the services up on “Goat Ridge” were a lot more lively than the ones at Centrahoma and later in Stonewall--the ones with which I was familiar.

My mom recalled that her going to church as a little girl was a totally different affair. Her family was closely attuned to their Church in Kennedy, just a few miles north of Panola. She and her sisters were singers. Their dad had been the song leader at this “Free Will Baptist Church” and I think all of his girls could play the piano some. The kids had a hard life hoeing and working in the fi elds for long hours, but mom mostly remembers them singing all the songs they knew as they worked outside. After supper each evening, singing broke out again.

Mom’s dad, John Boyd, died when she was about six leaving a house full of kids alone and in a bad place for several months. Then my grandma Julia married W.W. Armstrong and he kept the kids in church and encouraged them to sing. So it continued, their singing on the way to church became well known as the wagon made the 3 or 4 mile trip on Sundays to the little Church. The new family was a “his, hers and ours” group. But the people on Kennedy Road sure enjoyed the girls, singing when they worked or rode in the wagon.

My dad often rode his horse over to Church at Kennedy when he was just a young boy. I don’t know whether he liked the church services up at Kennedy or perhaps he just like my mom. Mom’s sisters continued to tease my dad about his courting days which they said added to the fl avor of life in those mountains down in Lefl ore County back a long time ago.

Have a good week and be sure and attend your church this Sunday. I can’t promise you a wagon load of little singing girls, but you will be blessed.

Wayne Bullard, DPh

waynebullard@sbcglobal.net