I’ve been going to the little church down the road. You don’t need to see a picture of it….you’ve seen a hundred pictures of it. You know the one….little, white, one room, TALL windows, double doors up front, and a steeple with a bell. Some of my fondest memories growing up are wrapped up in this church. “Aunt Idy” was my grandma’s very good friend and she played the piano. Her name was Ida Mae…a spinster who lived down the road in a house so crooked you could throw a jar of marbles in the front door and they’d run out the back! There used to be a lot more people attending this little church when I was growing up but they’ve mostly died off or moved on to find work elsewhere. My Pop-Pop and his brother, Uncle Red, took turns leading services as we only had a circuit preacher who came every six weeks or so. One of my mom’s cousins always led Sunday School. And my mom’s brother, my Uncle Bob, rang the bell when it was time to start the service. He took that job very, very seriously.

My Uncle Bob was an exceptional man. Grandma had chicken pox or measles…some malady when she was pregnant for Bob and he was born with a developmental disability of some type. He had a terrible speech impediment and a lazy eye. I believe in today’s world he would have had quite a different life. But in those days, there wasn’t such a thing as Special Education. When Grandma sent Bob to school with the other kids, they made fun of his speech and she would have none of that. She kept him at home with her. He was strong as an ox and he did a lot of the work on the farm. I remember him pounding rock with a sledge hammer and hauling it to fill the driveway. I still think of that when I walk down the drive to get the mail or the paper. He pushed a cultivator through the garden, hauled, lifted, toted, and worked hard every single day. Uncle Bob was totally without guile…the most innocent man I have ever known. He had never, ever lied. He wouldn’t know how to. He had a sense of humor that would make a little girl cry. He would give you the food from his own plate if he thought you were hungry. He was a great man.

When my aunt lost her second husband, my grandma was about to the point where she needed someone to be here with her and Uncle Bob so she moved in with them. Grandma’s love for Bob was apparent to all who knew them. Once, Bob was really sick with a fever. Grandma climbed right in bed with him and held him, rocking him like the little boy he still was to her. He would always be her “Bobert”. After Grandma passed, my aunt stayed on and cared for Bob. She told me a story about him yesterday. Some people came to see Bob and brought him a little mechanical bird in a cage. Bob asked what that bird ate and everyone laughed and said it didn’t eat…it was just a toy. After the company left, Bob asked my aunt again, quite seriously, what that bird ate. He was very concerned that if someone entrusted him with that bird, he needed to take good care of it. My aunt says that of all the people in this world that she has lost, the only one she has ever cried for is my Uncle Bob. On his headstone it reads “Manager of the Bell”. He would have liked that. He was very proud of his job.

I try to emulate them…my grandma and grandpa, my Uncle Bob. I learned a lot about life and love from them and from that little white church on the hill. I hope to live up to the high standards they left for me as I follow in their footsteps and care for my lovely aunt and this beautiful farm. I will make them proud.