Memorial Day, 2025

      To many, Memorial Day is the unofficial beginning of summer. Memorial Weekend is a time of relaxation with family gatherings, barbecue on the grill, civic parades, and celebrations, and, if one is a race fan…the running of the Indianapolis 500, which has been run during every Memorial Day weekend since 1911. 

      However, the true purpose of Memorial Day is much more somber. It is a day and a moment in which a grateful nation pauses to remember the men and women who have died while serving in the U.S. military defending our country against those who would do us harm. The holiday is not to be confused with Veterans’ Day held in November, which is meant to honor all military personnel, both living and dead. On Memorial Day, we give special honor to those who have paid the supreme sacrifice that we may enjoy the freedoms we hold dear today. 

      Memorial Day first began as Decoration Day in 1868 after the American Civil War. It was first commemorated at Arlington National Cemetery when 5,000 volunteers decorated the graves of 20,000 Union and Confederate soldiers who are buried there. At that time, the nation was still reeling from the effects of four years of civil war, which to this day is the most devastating war in our history. There were more casualties in the Civil War than all other wars the U.S. has fought from that time to the present, and tragically, in many instances, it was brother against brother. Of the 1.1 million military casualties the U.S. has suffered since 1862, 600,000 were lost in the civil war alone.  As the twentieth century wars took their toll with WWI and WWII, the Korean Conflict, the Vietnam War, and now our present struggle against terrorism, Memorial Day, as it has come to be known, has evolved into our honoring all military personnel who have died while in service of their country. 

     For the first 100 years, Memorial Day was observed on May 30, but in 1968 Congress changed the date to the last Monday in May to allow for the public to enjoy a three-day holiday. Many states resisted the changing of the date at the time because they felt it would undermine the meaning of the day, and time has proven that the three-day holiday has contributed to the public’s somewhat nonchalant observance of the day’s purpose. 

     There are still some traditional observances which occur on Memorial Day. 

    (1) At most military cemeteries and federal office buildings on Memorial Day, the flag of the United States is briskly raised to its topmost position on the flagpole, then slowly and solemnly lowered to the half-staff position only until noon, at which time it is again raised to full staff the remainder of the day. The half-staff position is to honor the more than one million heroes who have given their lives in service to their country. At noon, the flag is raised to honor the living who have resolved not to let the sacrifices of the fallen be in vain, but to rise in their stead to continue the fight for liberty. 

    (2) In the shadows of the nation’s capital in Washington, D.C., the National Memorial Day Concert takes place, and… 

   (3) At exactly 3:00 p.m. local time across the nation, citizens are encouraged to pause for a moment of silence and remembrance for our fallen soldiers. 

     On May 3, 1915, Colonel John McCrae, an officer with the Canadian army in the Flanders area of Belgium during the First World War, observed after months of fighting that the poppy flower seemed to grow well around the graves of young fallen soldiers. He was inspired to write this poem which is written from the viewpoint of the dead and speaks of their sacrifice and serves as their command to the living to press on: 

                                                          In Flanders Fields. 

 In Flanders field the poppies grow 

 Between the crosses, row on row 

 That mark our place, and in the sky 

 The larks, still bravely singing, fly 

Robert Downing  1967   2017

 Scarcely heard amid the guns below. 

 We are the Dead.  Short days ago 

 We lived, felt dawn, saw sunsets glow 

 Loved, and were loved, and now we lie 

 In Flanders field 

 Take up our quarrel with the foe 

 To you from failing hand we throw 

 The torch, be yours to hold it high. 

 If ye break faith with us who die 

 We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 

 In Flanders fields. 

 In 1918, inspired by the poem, a woman named Moina Michael attended a memorial wearing a silk poppy pinned to her coat and distributed over two dozen to others present. Within two years the poppy had become the official symbol of remembrance. 

 Today we enjoy spiritual freedom because of the supreme sacrifice of our savior. As we enjoy our families and celebrate over this holiday period, may we also give honor to those who also made the supreme sacrifice to make our country’s freedom possible. In the words of Abraham Lincoln…” May we resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain---that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom---and that the government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.” 

 May God bless the United States of America.

A Tribute to My Mother...Ethel Mai (New) Downing

R.L., Ethel, and Bobby Downing, 1943

     March 7, 2026, marked the 109th anniversary of the birth of my mother, Ethel Mai (New) Downing.  Although it has now been twenty-two years since she left us, I still think of her often, especially when I observe the condition of the office of motherhood as practiced by the general populace. From what I see, a conclusion can be drawn as to the cause of the many social ills being suffered by this generation. The major contributing factor to the degeneration of the family unit is the woeful lack of mothers of the stature of my mother.  In most cases today, the office and responsibilities of motherhood have been relegated to the back burner by the contemporary feminist, and though having produced through biological process a child, the duties required to nurture that child to adulthood are neglected.  Careers, personal satisfaction, and feminist peer pressure command greater attention and emphasis than mundane motherhood.

    Born on March 7, 1917, into a large family (five sisters and three brothers) of modest means, she lived most of her early life in Shawnee, Oklahoma. Although the family struggled during the Great Depression following the market crash of 1929, her father managed to work during the entire financial crisis as an engineer for the local railroad.  However, the pressures of providing for his large family caused him to begin drinking, and he eventually became an alcoholic who took his frustrations out on his family. Mother told me that when her dad would come home in one of his moods, she would hide her brothers and sisters in her bedroom until he fell asleep on the couch.  One of her brothers (my uncle) told me that Mother was the only one of the children who would stand up to their father and would not allow him to roar at her siblings.  He told me that eventually a grudging respect between father and stubborn child grew to the point that he would not press my mom to "bring out those kids so I can see them."   To complicate matters her mother contracted breast cancer, and in those years before proper treatment and surgeries, she became bed-ridden for the last two years of her life.

     In 1938, Mother married a poor farm boy from Mangum, Oklahoma. Robert L. Downing came from an even larger family than Mother's and at the age of 13 had to quit school in order to help earn money to support his parents and fourteen siblings. They were both 21 years old when they married. Within a year or so, the new couple moved to Baytown, Texas, where it was said jobs were in abundance. In the next fifty years together, they managed to carve out a living, create a home, and see four children born into their family. When her first child was born (her first and favorite one...namely, me), she quit her job and became a full-time professional mother and home manager. Throughout this period, Mother remained loyal to her husband, cared for her children, and established a home where there were standards of behavior and conduct. Meals were home prepared, and dining in a restaurant was usually reserved for Sunday after church.  We children never worried about food, clothing, shelter, accidents, or love because mom was always there.  Dad was there, too, and played an equally important role.  Although he brought home the bacon, Mom cooked it.  Honesty and integrity were just two of many high expectations in our relationships with one another and our acquaintances.
     Mother was a bit of a disciplinarian and expected...no, demanded that her children behave properly both at home and away.  She did not flinch from the observed need to give one of her kids a swat (after a warning) to remind the child (probably one of my sisters) that she was being pushed to the limit.  She was sort of the first line of defense when it came to discipline, however.  If the situation really went south, that was when she called for backup (Dad) to establish order.  I knew I was in deep trouble when I saw Dad removing his belt or, if he was outside, reaching into his pocket for his pocketknife and cutting off a low-lying branch of a tree and stripping it of its leaves.  Bleeding heart liberals today would yell "child brutality!" at such actions, but the discipline worked...I behaved...and I never doubted my dad and mom loved me. Usually with just a few minutes of the perceived torture, we were all happily engaged in whatever activity going at the time.
     I do remember, however, one time when I was a little older...around twelve or so, I did something to deserve a swat from Mom.  Sure enough, she popped me with whatever...and I laughed and said, "That didn't hurt!"  To which she replied, "Let's wait till Dad gets home."  I knew I had just committed a cardinal sin and was about to reap my judgement which I did a few hours later when Dad got home.  After that, I grimaced whenever Mom disciplined me whether it hurt or not.
      In 1950, Mother and Dad were introduced to Pentecost and in a matter of weeks were baptized, received the Holy Ghost, and began their long, faithful walk toward their eventual spiritual home. Mother, along with Dad, created a home built on spiritual values and passed those values to their children, not just in word but in deed. Mother's legacy lives within her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

Easter Sunday, 1950

There's an old song that laments,

"If I could only hear my mother pray again.

 If I could only hear her tender voice as then.
 How glad that I would be!
 It would mean so much to me!
 If I could hear my mother pray again."

    In 1990, Dad passed away, and Mother's loyalty to his memory never wavered, and after 52 years of marriage, she never recovered from his loss.  On Christmas Eve, December 24, 2004, the family laid Mom to rest in a simple, elegant ceremony at a small, community cemetery in her home state of Oklahoma.  She had survived the Great Depression, World War II, and 87 years of life.

I was reminded of the admonition of the Apostle Paul to the Philippians as he was bidding them goodbye.

                                               "Finally, My Brethren...rejoice in the Lord!"

Though she has been sorely missed, she lived a full life, faithful to her husband, her children, and her God.  And today I can rejoice in the Lord...because Ethel Mai (New) Downing was my mother.

    

Don Spell...In Memory

     In the spring of 2011 Bethel Tabernacle celebrated it 80th birthday with a week-long series of services and special speakers. The church Shirley and I have been attending for three years performed the usual “outreach” activities prior to the actual celebration in hopes of attracting new visitors. Personal visits to the nearby residential areas were made and a massive mail out program was executed to get the good news spread to as many people as possible. The results were the series of services was a great success, and the church enjoyed a renewed interest from the neighborhood with many new attendees coming from the nearby homes and apartments.

     One of those new members was a gentleman named Don Spell. Don was an exception to the usual rules of conversion. Perhaps because younger adults are usually more enthusiastic in the areas of outreach and visitation than older members, the spiritual harvest they gather is usually weighted toward the same age bracket as the outreach workers themselves. Don, however, did not fit the mold of the normal convert. Already eighty years old, he was a tall, slim, fragile appearing man with thin graying hair, who responded to a card which was sent to his apartment inviting him to attend the services. Though he lived in close proximity to the church, he had no vehicle and did not drive, but fortunately he had friends who brought him to the services. It turned out that his friends owned a motel and allowed Don to stay in one of the units. Apparently he had worked for them doing odd jobs for several years, and with the knowledge that Don had no living family, his friends had felt a concern for his welfare and given him a place to call home. It was an amicable arrangement.
     When Don first attended Bethel Tabernacle, he was but another face in a crowd. The church is a fairly large church, and the services were extremely well attended. As you would expect, being a birthday bash, there was much celebration, singing, and rejoicing, and the spirit of worship and praise was very moving. The guest ministers were anointed and powerful in their delivery of the Word of God, and the response to the call to commitment was incredible as dozens made their ways to the altar areas to give their lives to God. Don was one of those who responded to the call of God. He seemed a little out of place amongst the younger participants around him and a little unsure at first as to what to do. Encircled by enthusiastic Pentecostals who are usually loudly praying, the process can be a little intimidating to one who is unfamiliar with true communication with God. Someone spoke into Don’s ear and he began to pray, quietly at first, but as his level of worship begin to rise, so did his animation. I and several others were praying with him when an expression of joy seemed to cross his face, and he began to praise and worship with true zeal, and, in a short time, he gave evidence of his new relationship with God through the only method specifically mentioned in the scriptures: he began to speak in an unknown language. It was the biblical evidence that he had received the gift of the Holy Ghost as described in the New Testament. Later he was baptized by immersion in the name of Jesus Christ and thus began his new walk with his new savior.

     Within a month of Don’s conversion, he became a familiar sight at every church service. Unlike many who take a step toward God during the high emotion of a spiritual moment only to quickly fade away once the reality of day to day Christian living becomes apparent, Don had made a life-changing decision. He did not miss church. When he walked into the sanctuary before service, he was already raising his hands and praising his God. Normal distractions of church…crying children, chatting adults, people moving about…did not affect Don at all. When the service began, he was there to honor his God. He was one of the first to stand during singing, the first to raise his hands, and the first to praise and worship. From where I was sitting I could see Don, and his enthusiastic attitude and worship encouraged and blessed everyone. Although his motel friends brought him to church the first few times, eventually someone in the church, usually my good friend Jerry Stewart, made sure Don was picked up and taken home. I was privileged to take Don home one evening, and all he could talk about was the wonderful service we had just experienced. Don enjoyed his new walk with God, and we old timers who had grown up in the church were reminded of the simple joy and peace that comes in knowing your heart is right with God.

     Our church was shocked a couple of months ago when it was announced that Don had been diagnosed with an aggressive and terminal form of cancer. It seemed almost unfair that God would bless someone with his love and spirit and then allow a debilitating disease to destroy the life. However, Don took the news in stride, and the church prayed for his healing. Even as the church prayed for his health, he told Pastor David Fauss, that, although healing would be nice, the fact was that he was ready to go, and he was thankful to God that he had been given another chance to set his soul straight. A few days ago, he left this life, and at a simple graveside service, we said our final goodbyes to a man who in just a few short months touched many lives at Bethel Tabernacle.

     Don’s past life is still a mystery to us. His friends told us that several years ago Don lost his wife and child in a tragic car accident. He had no other family and was totally alone until his friends at the motel took him in to do odd jobs. There were rumors that somewhere in the past he had an acquaintance with Pentecost, but in his adult life he had not attended church. He did everything that someone with no regard for God would do, but that lifestyle came to a dramatic end when he walked into our church and gave his heart to God. His long time acquaintances told us that his speech, attitude, activities, and spirit all changed when he started going to church. Our church will miss seeing Don Spell stand up in the middle of a song, raise his hands, and begin to praise his God. He reminded us that even in this cynical, materialistic world, a simple touch of God can change a life forever. I’m glad I met Brother Don Spell.

George Creel...Good Memories

     George Dennis Creel passed from this life at the far too young age of 61. He was one of my closest friends from the early days of my youth. My parents in 1950 became part of the church where George and his considerably sized family had attended since its founding in the early forties. I was seven years old when my family began attending church, and George quickly became a companion and a confidante. There were several young boys in the church at that time, but two, George and Ronny Guidroz, the pastor’s son, seemed to share the same interests and activities as I. We spent many Sunday afternoons at one of our parents’ homes between Sunday School in the morning and evangelistic service Sunday night.

This photo was taken in February, 1956, and shows five of my friends from Peace Tabernacle. They are (left to right) Jerry Kemplay, Jerry Smith, David Smith, George Creel, and Ronny Guidroz.

     In 1959, Ronny’s father resigned from the church and the Guidroz family moved away. Ronny and I would be reunited a few years later as brothers in law, but for a while, George and I spent even more time together. As a teenager, I drove a 1954 Mercury which at the time was an average decent car. George was on a little tighter budget, but managed to buy a 1950 Ford in dire need of paint…but it was a convertible. George sanded and painted the car himself, cleaned up the convertible top, and afterward for most of the time we prowled Texas Avenue in Baytown, Texas, we rode in George’s Ford because, well, it was a convertible, and it looked pretty good and sounded good. George’s Ford didn’t sound as good as my Mercury (sound was VERY important back then) because he only had one glass packed muffler while I had dual exhausts with dual glass packs. I could turn onto North Main from Texas Avenue, and for about three blocks where the street was pretty narrow and the buildings close together, I could give my old Mercury a little gas, the glass packs would roar, and the display windows of the stores would vibrate. If you don’t understand the sanity of this…well, it’s a guy thing…a sort of human version of the Lion King roaring from the top of a mountain. But the fact was…given a choice of driving a car that sounded REALLY good or riding in a top-down convertible…we chose to ride in George’s car.

     Just to show you how brave (lonely? chicken? nervous?) George and I were back in those days, one warm, summer night we were cruising Texas Avenue in George’s car with the top down, feeling sorry for ourselves because we didn’t have any girls with us. Just at that moment, we passed the Brunson movie theater which apparently had ended a show because everyone was leaving. I said to George, “Hey, George, pull up and let’s see if we can pick up a couple of girls!” So George pulled up to the curb in from of the theater and we looked expectantly at the crowd exiting the building. I saw a couple of girls who seemed to be single and I waved to them, and they smiled…and started walking toward our car! The closer they got, the higher our level of panic went. When they got within about ten feet…we took off. I just hope we didn’t destroy the girls’ self esteem for the rest of their lives and they are suffering to this day from feelings of rejection. It’s a wonder George and I ever got married, but fortunately as time went by our relationships with fair maidens improved. In 1961 Shirley and I married, and a little later George did the same. In 1963 I went into the Air Force, and Shirley and I traveled for the next four years. George went into the Navy, and we had difficulty maintaining contact for a few years. You have to remember, this was before email, Facebook, and cell phones. Long distance phone calls were expensive, and letter writing was the only practical means of contact. We would occasionally cross trails at a family reunion, and there we would try to catch up on family news.

     Shirley and I moved to Casper, Wyoming, in 1974, and happily, in the early 80s I think, George, wife Dee, and children moved to Casper, also. It was a happy reunion and our families enjoyed many good times together thereafter. During this time our two families entered the Motorhome Era. Because Wyoming offers so many scenes of natural beauty, recreational vehicles are very popular, and Shirley and I had purchased a motorhome for family camping. George and family did the same. George’s motorhome was a Winnebago which had been converted to a Caterpillar diesel engine with an Allison transmission. His motorhome would fly down the road, but the only problem was, the transmission did not have a “Park” position. On most big trucks, apparently, the vehicle is secured with an emergency brake that locks the driveshaft someway to keep the vehicle from moving rather than using a “Park” on the transmission. George’s Winnebago had the emergency brake lock on the driveshaft…but it didn’t work too well. So George, when they stopped for the night, would put chocks behind the wheels to keep the motorhome from rolling. One night we were sitting at a scenic camp ground up in the Wyoming hills. I was parked across from George’s motorhome in the adjacent camping spot. George’s camping spot was on a slight incline, but behind his motorhome the land dropped off quickly into a deep ravine. George, however, had carefully put out his wheel chocks, so all seemed OK. As the evening wore on into darkness, his family, Shirley, and our kids began playing some sort of game in the motorhome. For some reason, I was in our motorhome…probably taking a nap.

     Anyway, some time later, I heard some yelling and then a crash. I ran out of our motorhome and George’s Winnebago was down the incline several feel, but, fortunately, resting up against a tree. There was a single tree that had been between George’s motorhome and disaster, and thankfully, the Winnebago and rolled up against it with a thud and stopped. Shirley said that as soon as the motorhome began moving, George knew what had happened and nearly ran over everyone trying to get to the brake pedal. Other than a couple of mild heart attacks and minor damage to the motorhome bumper, everything was fine. We had several other camping trips with George’s family, and enjoyed every one, even though none of the others was as exciting as that trip.

     In the early 80s the economy suffered in Wyoming, and George’s family moved to Dallas where there was work. Shirley and I visited George and Dee on several trips to Texas, making an overnight stop at their home on the way to Baytown. After we moved back to Baytown, we visited them in Dallas occasionally, but it was at the Creel reunions during the Christmas holidays where we were most able to catch up on family news. The last time we saw George, the disease which would take his life was already taking its toll, but he was being ably cared for by Dee, family, and friends. Their church family offered tremendous support, and at George’s passing the family was surrounded by caring friends. George’s passing was another lost link to the days of youth, but my memories of George as a youthful buddy, close friend and companion will live on.

In Memory of Pastor V.A. Guidroz

     In 1938, my mother and dad, R.L. and Ethel Downing, were married and in 1939 moved to Baytown to seek work. For the next eleven years, my dad worked to establish his business, Downing Roofing Company, while Mother established a stable home life for her children. Mother attended a Baptist church, carrying me along, but Dad, as many men in that era, was too busy trying to make a living to be concerned with church. Dad had opened his home and company to his many relatives who migrated from Oklahoma. In the late forties the Downing family worked hard, lived hard, and played hard.

     In about 1949, one of his brothers, O.E. Downing and his wife, Reba, suddenly changed their lifestyle after joining Peace Tabernacle, a Pentecostal church pastored by Reverend V.A. Guidroz. It must have been a dramatic change, because they began to pester Mom and Dad to attend church with them. For months, Mom and Dad refused, but sometime in 1950, my Uncle O.E. caught Mom and Dad in a weak moment and they agreed to visit Peace Tabernacle. To make a long story short, since this essay is not about my parents but about the Guidrozes, let me say that in a matter of weeks my mom and dad had been baptized in Jesus Name and received the Holy Ghost, and the homelife of the Downing family changed forever.

     Please understand that as I offer my impressions of the Guidroz family in the following words, they are created at least in the beginning through the eyes of a young boy. When we began attending Peace Tabernacle, I was seven years old. The pastor’s son sat down next to me in one of our early services and said, “I’m Ronny, and I’m six!" To which I replied, “I’m Bobby, and I’m seven!" We young boys liked to establish the pecking order as soon as possible.   Glory Guidroz was the teacher of the Primary Sunday School Class, and to this day I can remember getting my fifth star in a row on her attendance chart and she declaring, “Bobby is now a member of our class!" I had found a home.

     Upon meeting Brother Guidroz, he seemed larger than life. He was a big man who was obviously in charge and did most of the talking. I was still a little unsure on the concept of “pastor." He was quick with a laugh, and seemed to enjoy talking to us kids. I thought it was so cool that he was missing a joint or two on one of his fingers. His influence on my mom and dad governed the way we lived, where we went, and what we wore, and Mom and Dad followed unquestioningly. Brother Guidroz loved to fish, but was a salt water fisherman, and my dad and mom did not eat anything that came out of the ocean. Dad and I fished rivers, lakes, and streams and had a bay-worthy boat, but it never tasted salt water.  So I have no Guidroz fish stories.

     In fact, one of the strange things I had to get accustomed to once I started visiting the Guidroz home was something called “gumbo.”  The Downings were basically steak and potatoes, chicken and potatoes, ham and beans type of people, and when the first bowl of gumbo was placed in front of me, I had no idea what I was supposed to do with it.               It looked like soup, but it wasn’t, and there were strange things floating around on the surface. I had been introduced to shrimp gumbo. It was like a whole new world had been opened up. To this day, my section of the Downing family loves gumbo.  Sister Guidroz, unlike her husband, was not larger than life, but rather seemed like a matronly grandmother (remember I was seven at the time, so anyone over 35 was antique.) Her place was the second pew on the left hand side (facing the pulpit) at the left end of the bench next to the wall. In those early years Ronny and I sat in front of her on the first pew. As soon as my family got to church, I would find Ronny, and we would play outside until church started. Running and jumping in the heat of a Texas summer until the very last second, we would slip into church, sit down in our places, and my shirt would be wringing wet with sweat. Sister Guidroz would lean forward, pat me on my soggy shirt and whisper, “Bobby, Bobby! What are we going to do with you!”

     When my family started attending Peace Tabernacle, the building which was Peace Tabernacle at 1102 North Main was pretty well complete. It was built in the standard format of construction of that era with a wood frame and outside asbestos siding. There were two story sections in front and in the rear that had been added to the single level auditorium area. A large attic fan pulled air through the open windows (no screens) in a usually unsuccessful attempt to cool the interior in the summers. We hot, sweaty sorts always tried to sit next to an open window to catch the air being pulled into the building by the fan. Didn't help much, but it was something. Speaking of the Downing family at that time, there was just Mom, Dad, my sister Judy, and I, and yet there seemed to be Guidrozes everywhere. Sons and daughters seemed to be in every classroom, and I quickly learned that a family is sometimes more than four people! Ronny's younger brother, Lowell, and older sister, Wanda, were about the only two I could relate to because the rest of the kids (in my seven year old mind) were old as the hills. Buddy, Ronny’s oldest brother, seemed a grown man to me, also. So Ronny and I created our own little world. Though he was a year my junior, he influenced my life more than he will know.     But that’s another story.

     In those early days, the Guidrozes lived on Lobit street, not too far from the church. One of the exciting things about going to the Guidrozes house with Ronny on a Sunday afternoon was I got to ride in their big Chrysler limousine. One daughter, Gracie, was wheelchair bound all her life, and the Guidrozes had this stretched Chrysler limousine with huge back doors and fold down middle seats. When Gracie came to church, they would fold down the middle seats, and Gracie and her wheelchair would be lifted through the big doors into the middle of the car where she rode to church. The thing I remember about that Chrysler was the smell. It had power windows, but they were hydraulically powered, and once the windows were raised or lowered a few times there was the slight smell of hydraulic fluid…not offensive, just distinctive. Over those years, I think I remember that the Guidrozes had at least two of these Chryslers. When I was older and able to drive, I was privileged to be the driver. The second feature I remember was that the Chrysler had Fluid Drive, which meant that it was a manual transmission, but by doing it just right, you could shift gears without pushing in the clutch. Very hi-tech in those days. In time, the Guidrozes moved to a larger home on North Eighth, where Ronny and I spent many nights talking about all the things that concerns young boys. On August 17, 1961, I spent my last night with the Guidroz family and my best friend. Actually, by then he was only my best male friend, because the next night I got married.

     Brother Guidroz was a legendary minister and teacher, and there are others who can probably more accurately tell of his accomplishments as a minister. To me, his most powerful skill was the ability to draw the lost soul to the altar at the end of his sermons. There was a time when I hated him for that skill. As I began to reach my early teens, I began to feel the drawing of the Spirit on my life.  Although I had heard his “altar calls” many times, suddenly they began to feel directed to me, and as I resisted, I began to dread the ends of services. I can remember sitting on the back bench counting down the verses of whatever invitational song was being sung trying to make it to the point where he invited everyone to the altar…so I could escape to the restroom and hide. I held out for a long time until one service while I was hanging tough, I saw my good friend Ronny walking toward me with tears in his eyes, and I knew what he was going to do…and at that point I even hated my best friend. Ronny told me I needed to go pray, and I started to resist, but instead I began walking toward the altar. I didn’t receive the Holy Ghost that night, but it was a start, and I remember it as if it happened yesterday. A few days later, Brother Guidroz baptized me, and eventually, on June 4, 1958, about 11:00 p.m., standing on a sawdust-covered floor at the Texas Youth Camp, I received my personal Pentecost.

     In the ensuing years, Brother Guidroz’s influence on my life was second only to my parents. He preached a straight line, and my behavior and activities in school and at home were governed by the guidelines that my pastor preached to his church. Though he has been gone for many years, I see how events in the world have transpired, and I can’t help but think to myself occasionally, “Brother Guidroz was right.” In 1959, the responsibilities of Texas District Superintendent became too great for him to be able to pastor a church in the full-time manner he preferred, and, honoring the greater need of the district, he resigned the church which had never known another pastor but him. On that Sunday morning, as the clock approached twelve noon, he spoke of the need for us members to not dwell on the past but look to the future. Offering prayers and encouragement, he asked us to turn around and face the clock at the back of the church. As we watched the second hand and minute hand approach high noon, he said what had passed was history. We could remember the past, but we needed to look to the future and have faith that though we may not understand, God would work it all out. At straight up noon, the auditorium went silent. We heard a click of the door at the back of the rostrum. There were a few sobs. We eventually turned to face the pulpit…and it was empty.

     Over sixty-five years later, we are still honoring the pastorship of Brother V.A. Guidroz. Several Peace Tabernacle reunions have been held over the years, and we who lived those early days still feel a bond of common experience. We have enjoyed a special relationship because we enjoyed a special pastor.

Don Eddleman 1934-2010

     It is probably a tribute to modern medicine and an understanding of healthy living that we can lament the passing of a man in his seventy-fifth year of life and somehow feel that he was taken from this life prematurely. Such was the case with the recent passing of Donald Wilson Eddleman, husband of Coya Creel Eddleman, uncle and aunt respectively of my wife Shirley. Don and Coya were married fifty-six years, and it was during the early years of their marriage that they were most influential in the lives of Shirley and me…not to mention an entire group of young people who grew to adulthood in the fifties and early sixties and attended Peace Tabernacle United Pentecostal Church in Baytown, Texas. Don and Coya were a few years ahead of the group of young people with whom Shirley and I associated, but it was to them that many of us looked for guidance. We who at that time were just beginning to become aware of the enormity of the future with ideas of jobs, homes, and marriages starting to flit around our heads were awed by the control that Don and Coya seemed to have over their lives. Don, at an age when most of today’s young men are contemplating whether or not to live with Mom and Dad another year, had already built a new home for Coya, established himself with a skill and job, prepared a financial plan for the future, and just seemed to be so with it! We younger guys secretly envied Don and wished we could be assured of a future in his footsteps.

     In those early years when the churches of our denomination had what were called fellowship meetings (meetings where several churches met together for…well, fellowship,) Don and Coya were faithful attendees to these gatherings, and with their customary graciousness, would offer rides to other young couples or groups to these affairs. By this time, Shirley and I had developed a certain…um…affinity for each other, and we enjoyed the privilege of riding with Don and Coya to these meetings. What I am about to describe will be a shock to the Eddlemen kids, but it is the truth and totally contrary to what they may think of their dad or “Poppy.” In those days Don had a reputation as a fast driver. At the same time my dad had a reputation of keeping me on a pretty short leash when it came to riding with other people. There were some young people in the church I was forbidden to ride with. I won’t say who, but for one, his initials were Ronnie Smith. My dad told me one time if he ever caught me riding with Ronnie Smith…er…R.S…that I would be grounded till the rapture. Later, under great peer pressure, I rode with R.S. and I remember that ride to this very day, but that’s another story. I saw R.S. at the funeral home for Don’s visitation, and he seems to have turned out pretty well. His wife, Joye, has done a remarkable job. Shirley and I may go visit them and borrow their motor home. Anyway, even with Don’s reputation for rapid transit, his reputation for responsibility was even stronger, and Dad never quibbled when I told him I was riding with the Eddlemans to a church service.

     On this particular night, we were in Don’s 1952 (I think) Chevrolet coming back from a Pasadena fellowship meeting. It was very late and Don and Coya were in the front seat, with Coya snuggled up next to Don (bring back bench seats!) and Shirley and I in the back enjoying the privacy. With no air conditioning in the car, the windows were down, and I noticed it seemed to be especially windy. Quietly I leaned forward and looked at the speedometer…the needle was rocking (literally) between 70 and 75! This was on a narrow, two lane road with a speed limit of probably 50-55. I had never ridden so fast in my life (this was before I bought my own car and broke my record.) Though I thought we were nearly airborne, I felt no alarm, because Don was driving. But to this day, I can see the glow of that speedometer in my mind.

     As Shirley and I became more serious about our relationship and I began to haunt the Creel home probably more than I should have, we began to feel that Shirley’s dad was being far too restrictive. It wasn’t that he restricted us from going out on dates; it was just that when we were at their home, we could never be sure of any privacy, which, of course, to a young couple in love is as important as fresh air and sunshine. It’s hard to be dignified when the father of your girl friend walks in the room and your glasses are on the coffee table and you know that he knows that you are blind as a bat without them and why are they off in the first place?? These were called awkward moments. Before you feel I am negative about my father-in-law, please read my blog James L. Creel. He was one of the finest men I ever knew. But Don and Coya to the rescue! Shirley and I began to visit the Eddlemans on our dates, and we would have fun visiting and playing games. At some point into the evening, however, Don and Coya would suddenly and discreetly disappear, and Shirley and I had the dimly-lit living room all to ourselves. We would discuss sports or the weather or politics for a couple of hours (cough), and then quietly turn off the lights, shut and lock the outside door, and go home. It was heavenly. And just in case you’re one of those people who assumes the worst in every situation, let me make it clear that Shirley and I were respectful of where we were and of each other. We did not forget our parental teachings and church upbringings…but we enjoyed those moments together in the quiet of Don and Coya’s living room.

     We continued our visits to the Eddleman home even after we married in 1961, and all the characteristics of Don which were mentioned at the funeral were evident even then…methodical, caring, conscientious, and gracious. In 1963 I joined the United States Air Force, and Shirley and I traveled to other states and Europe, and during this pre-computer/email/Facebook era it was hard to keep in touch. We returned to Baytown in 1967 and renewed our friendship with Don and Coya as we worked together again as members of Peace Tabernacle. Don spent much of this time as the song leader during our church services, and I can see him even now in my mind with his right hand beating a steady rhythm on the pulpit as we sang the songs of worship.

     In 1974 Shirley and I moved to Wyoming, and we were able to visit Don and Coya during our annual treks back to Texas and the Creel Christmas Reunions. Both of our families grew in number, and we enjoyed hearing of the successes of kids and grandkids. In 1991, Shirley and I returned to Texas, and we again renewed the church and family relationship with Don and Coya. When the new church was built in Baytown a few years ago, Don designed the complete electrical system and practically single-handedly wired the entire building himself. Electrical inspectors who looked at the building said it was a work of electrical art.

     In retirement, Don became a wood craftsman…not just a craftsman, but an artist in wood.  His handiwork was incredible. I have built a few things of wood that I value, but I never showed Don any of my work because, after looking at his craftsmanship, mine was embarrassing. As was mentioned at his funeral, he built not for himself, but to give to others. We who have been recipients of his good will and craftsmanship now have priceless mementos of an incredible person. When we received word of his misfortune, we were on our way to church, and we quickly changed direction and headed to the hospital. Upon hearing of the circumstances surrounding his sudden collapse as he and Coya were entering a restaurant, I had a horrible flashback to the death of my own father at age 73 a few years earlier. Sitting in his favorite rocker, my dad suddenly collapsed and within fifteen minutes, it was over. Though the doctors were able to keep Don technically alive through Wednesday night, I feared for the worst, and on Thursday morning we received the sad news.

     I have written before of the legacy we parents leave for our children, and the word was used at Don’s funeral. Don and Coya married at ages 18 and 15 respectively and made a commitment for life. Theirs was a marriage built of trust, love, and mutual respect that is a template for children, grandchildren and great grandchildren to seriously consider following.

James Lemuel Creel 1920-1989

      It’s been thirty-one years since James Lemuel Creel, my father-in-law, passed away, and I still think of him quite often. I was married to his daughter for the last twenty eight years of his life, and with our marriage now passing the fifty-eight year mark, I find I am now older than he was when he left us. It’s a sobering realization because somehow in my mind I don’t feel my age, and yet in years past when I looked at my parents and father-in-law when they were the age I am now they seemed so…ancient. Let me tell you, growing old is not for the weak of heart…no pun intended.

     My first contact with Lemuel Creel (hardly anyone called him James) was when my mom and dad began attending Peace Tabernacle United Pentecostal Church in about 1950. “Brother Lemuel” was the assistant pastor of the church pastored by Reverend V.A. Guidroz in Baytown, Texas. In those early years Pastor Guidroz was also the District Superintendent for the Texas District of the UPC and due to that fact had to take an occasional trip around the district doing church business. During those short absences, Brother Lemuel would ably conduct the local church services. Even as a kid I can remember that I always enjoyed his sermons because he told good stories and analogies to back up the points he was trying to make.

     My relationship with the Creel family got ratcheted up several notches when as a teenager I realized that he had a daughter who, with just a smile or a frown, could make or ruin my day. Fortunately, the spark seemed to be mutually encouraged, and in our teen years, Shirley and I were usually “dating,” “going steady,” or “good friends,” with only an occasional “don’t call me, I’ll call you” thrown in.      There were bumps along the road for Lemuel. Buadda, his wife and Shirley’s mother, died of cancer in 1957 when Shirley was 16. Shirley dropped out of the teenage romance game and assumed the role of substitute mother for her younger siblings. Later, Lemuel married Geraldine Lewis, a widow with a teenage daughter a year younger than Shirley. With a new mother and a new sister, Shirley was relieved of some of the motherly responsibilities and reentered the dating scene, and of course I was there to help her get started again. By that time I owned a car and could come a-calling whenever I thought it safe. It was at that time I began to realize that Lemuel had certain rules and guidelines for the home and for guys taking his daughter various places. At the time Shirley and I thought we were being severely persecuted, but, looking back now as a parent and grandparent, he was pretty easy with us. I could never be really sure if he liked me or not, although I will admit that in those days I was shy enough that I could hardly carry on a conversation with anyone, so he and I never really had any extended discussions until years later.

     But one thing I will never forget was the night I asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage. This charmingly quaint tradition, long since forgotten in these modern times, goes back hundreds of years, and I, the dutiful suitor, did as I was expected. Shirley and I along with Lemuel and Geraldine sat in their family room chatting about some inane subject while my mind raced about what I was going to say and my shirt got increasingly wet from a nervous sweat. Finally, during a pregnant pause, I blurted out, ”Brother Lemuel, may I marry your daughter?” I really think during the next fifteen seconds my heart did not take a beat. Finally he responded with the words that would ring in my head for years, “Well, I guess there’s nothing I can do to stop it!” I was so happy he did not say no that I totally missed the complete lack of enthusiasm on his part. Anyway, on August 18, 1961, Shirley and I were united in holy matrimony.

     Now, before you begin to think that my personal self esteem was permanently damaged by my father-in-law’s lack of enthusiasm about our marriage, let me say it’s true my relationship with my in-laws was sort of arms length for those first few years, but as I have become more educated and mature and watched my own children grow, learn, and prosper, I can now look back through time and see myself through my father-in-law’s eyes as we sat in that family room in 1961. And when I see what I was in 1961, I realize that if I had been Brother Lemuel in that room, I would have thrown me out the door. There I sat, all of eighteen years old, no education, working basically as a laborer for my dad’s company, and didn’t have a hundred dollars to my name. Even scarier, my mom and dad had taken me to Austin, Texas, and enrolled me in the University of Texas in May of that year to begin my college career…and I canceled the whole thing because I wanted to stay home and get married. My parents and Shirley’s parents should have gotten us all together and said something to the effect that if you love each other get your education and then get married. But they didn’t, and you know what? It worked out anyway. And for that I thank God and the fact that we both had good families. Of course, there was another reason…in our religious culture of that time, divorce was not an option. Couples worked out their problems. And we were so young and naïve we had a lot of growing up to do after we married.

     A couple of years after we married, Lemuel suffered a second shock when Geraldine was diagnosed with cancer, and I can remember being in the hospital room when the diagnosis was announced to the family. Lemuel leaned his head against the wall and began to weep, and the rest of us bowed our heads and stood there like statues. It never occurred to me to put a hand on his shoulder or try to comfort in any way. I still feel guilty about that. A few months later, Geraldine was sent home to spend her final days. During one of the evenings when Shirley and I were spending the night with them, there suddenly was a commotion in Geraldine’s room. We all rushed in to see her taking her final breaths. The gasps for air came farther and farther apart until they ceased. Lemuel said quietly, “Well, she fought a good fight.”  He covered her head with the sheet and calmly dialed the funeral home and asked them to send a hearse. He hung up the phone, lowered his head, and wept. And again, I stood there.

     Lemuel suffered financially as well as emotionally with his two cancer experiences, but the next few years were much more favorable. He married Anniedeen Bateman, a long time family friend who brought stability to the family. She is practically the only mother the younger siblings have ever known. In 1972 the family moved to Casper, Wyoming, where Lemuel accepted the pastorship of a small church, and began to teach welding in the vocational department of Casper College. In 1973, Buddy and Jeannie, his son and daughter-in-law, followed them to Wyoming, and in 1974, Shirley and I joined the family. It was during these years from 1974 to 1989 in Wyoming that my respect and esteem for my father-in-law grew dramatically. He was a man of character who also possessed a temper which could flare at the most unlikely time. He was highly suspicious of government at any level, and watched his money like a hawk. He was not “tight,” the term we used to use for people who begrudged spending a penny. He did not mind spending money for something for the family; it was just that he kept track of where it all went. Speaking candidly, I never subscribed to that policy and am paying the price for my sloppy financial management even as I write this. I finally learned my lesson a few years ago, but when I think of all the money we frittered away, I get depressed.

     About the time we moved to Wyoming, I wrote a letter to Lemuel and Anniedeen, telling them that I would like to get beyond the “Brother Lemuel” and “Sister Anniedeen” and call them “Dad” and “Mom.” By then the arms length relationship of our youthful years seemed somehow inappropriate and didn’t reflect the current bonding we had with them. Needless to say, they graciously consented, and they have been “Dad” and “Mom” ever since, and I will use those terms for the rest of this paper.

     The fact that I can now talk for a fairly long time about practically anything is partly Dad’s fault. In the small church we attended, everyone had a job to do, and many times when Dad was out of service because of his health problems, I was forced to fill in. In Wyoming, if your preacher is out of action, you don’t call for a sub. There is no one else. You make do with what you have. So I was forced to learn how to speak, and in doing so found out that I sort of enjoyed presenting my ideas. At the time, I also had taken a selling job which forced me to think and speak on my feet, so I was able to finally escape from my mummy-like trance of my first thirty years.

     As I’ve said earlier, Dad taught welding at Casper College for years, and one semester I decided to take a course from him. I figured it couldn’t be too hard and would be fun. Boy, I found out that you need the delicate hands of a surgeon to keep that welding rod from sticking. Dad would tell the class, “Now, do it just like this,” and he would run a welding bead so perfect you would think someone had used their finger to just smear the metal in place. And it didn’t matter what the position…horizontal, vertical, upside down, his welding was a work of art. On my best day, my welding looked like someone had used chunks of bubble gum to seal the crack.

     During the last few years of our Wyoming tenure when I worked at an auto dealership in Casper, I would go to work about eight in the morning, but I would first swing by my in-laws house for coffee and breakfast along the way. It was a most enjoyable tradition, and we had many wonderful conversations as we began our day. Dad was most happiest when he was talking about motorhoming and traveling. He loved winter, and when we had our few dog days of summer, he was quick to say, “Man, I’m ready for the snow to fly!” And he meant it.

     On August 28, 1989, after being diagnosed with another heart aneurysm, Dad’s heart problems finally caught up with him, and during a simple heart catharization procedure something went terribly wrong. The results were that Dad passed away the next day, August 29. Ministers and friends from around the Rocky Mountain District came to pay their respects. Little did Shirley and I realize how his passing would affect us, and that within two years we would move back to Texas and begin new careers. The thing I remember most vividly about the next day or so was when, after all the well-wishers had gone back to their homes, the family gathered at Dad and Mom’s place for our first dinner after the funeral. Dad always had his favorite spot to sit at the dining room table, just as we all did. This time, however, when everyone went to sit, Dad’s chair at the end of the table remained empty, as if no one really wanted to sit in Dad’s place. There was about a minute or two of sort of milling about, and finally Buddy sat down in Dad’s chair, and everyone else followed suit and found our places. The torch had been passed.

Another Broken Link: A Tribute to Bonnie Downing

     In one of my recent essays, I bemoaned the fact that one of the reasons I did not like growing older (among many) was seeing the number of members of the generation that came before me rapidly diminish, and that the deep resource of their experiences and wisdom was disappearing as well. Somehow my parents and older uncles and aunts always seemed to have the right answer coupled with the wisdom of Solomon, and I have drawn on the resource of their lives many times over the years.

     But that rich resource of life is rapidly vanishing. My father had fourteen brothers and sisters, and only one, whom I will talk about momentarily, remains alive today. My mother’s family, which in looking at her siblings was a relatively younger lot, has in the last few years begun to see the dwindling of their flock as time takes its toll.

     The fallen soldier for this essay is Bonnie Laverne Williams Downing…”Aunt Bonnie” to me. She was the wife of Dad’s last surviving brother, Thurl E. Downing. Her story is very similar to my own mother’s story. Both were born into modest families in small towns, and both married poor Oklahoma farm boys who happened to be brothers. Both couples lived in the same Houston area and over a nearly 65 year period managed to create homes, enjoy measures of success, raise children and grandchildren, and create legacies that hangs heavily over the descendents of these two marriages.

     Bonnie was born in 1926. She and her family moved to Baytown, Texas, in 1940, where she met a young man and gave him her heart on October 10, 1941. She was fifteen years old and he was twenty one. Her age at marriage sounds shocking in today’s society, but during the Great Depression of the twenties and thirties, young people by necessity grew up faster than now. Many even in their early teens left home and attempted to earn their living because there was no work at home with the family. Today we have twenty-five year olds who have the maturity of twelve year olds because they’ve never had to want for anything. (But that’s another story, and I digress.)

     What with marrying brothers, Aunt Bonnie became good friends with my mother, Ethel, who was married to R.L. Downing. My mom and dad had married only a couple of years before Thurl and Bonnie, and all soon became close friends. In late 1942, Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Thurl had their first child, Carletta, and Mom was there to help Aunt Bonnie adjust to motherhood. She was the ripe old age of sixteen. Aunt Bonnie was able to return the motherhood favor in May, 1943, when I was born. Mother had a few problems after I was born, not the least which was a high blood pressure condition which she would live with for the rest of her life. But Aunt Bonnie was there for her on a daily basis, and, in fact, was the first to point out to my mother a peculiar characteristic of her young infant son.

     My mother told me this story many times, and it goes like this: Bonnie came to her one day and said, “Ethel, have you ever noticed what your baby does when he’s sleeping?”

     Mom said, “Well, no, not really. What is it?”

     Bonnie said, “Most babies when they get ready to turn over just sort of roll over to one side or another and they’re happy. Bobby uses his hands to flip himself up and then spins his body around to get to his new position. He shakes the whole bed!”

     I have a confession to make: I still do that. During many a restless night I have awakened for some reason and found my wife gone, only to discover she was in the living room recliner or on the sofa asleep. She has said on my restless nights it was like she was sleeping on a trampoline. We have solved the problem with a bed that doesn’t transmit movement, but I’m still a spinner to this day.

     In the early years the two Downing families lived on the same street, and as far as us kids were concerned, we practically weren’t sure which house was ours; we felt comfortable in either one. The rules were the same in either house, and we kids knew that respect, courtesy, and good behavior were expected in either home. Though our fathers played critical roles in our upbringing, in those days it was the mother who set the tone for the home. Like my mother, Aunt Bonnie established a legacy of honesty, character, and integrity in dealing with her husband, children, and relatives. Our homes offered to us kids foundations of solid rock where we knew where we stood and offered us places on which to build.

     We, the offspring of T.E. and Bonnie Downing, Robert L. and Ethel Downing, Lawrence and Blanche Downing, and Orville and Reba Downing and the other siblings of that generation, are bound with a responsibility to pass to our children the redeeming qualities which were taught to us…and which are so lacking in many families today. Our children need to know they have a tradition and a legacy that must be treasured and practiced.

     On August 28, 2009, in a simple, elegant ceremony very similar to my own mother’s service on December 24, 2004, we laid Bonnie Laverne Williams Downing to rest in a small country cemetery. Surrounded by a loving family and friends we bade farewell to a stalwart of faith and love. She had survived the Great Depression, World War II, sixty-seven years of marriage, five children, fourteen grandchildren, nineteen great-grandchildren, seven great-great-grandchildren, and eighty three years of life. One more link to the past had been broken.

     Finally, she could rest.

Robert L Downing August 7,1917 - December 31,1990

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     August 7, 2024, would have been my father’s 107th birthday. Not many days go by that I don’t think of him and wish that he were still around so I would have someone to go to when I need advice. That’s a major problem that I’ve encountered as I go deeper into my senior era…the lack of senior resources that one can draw on when counseling is needed. As parents pass away and the young become the “new” old, the weight of responsibility seems to bear down even more heavily than before. We are thrust into the “twilight of our years,” and yet somehow I don’t feel as wise as I reckoned my parents were when they were the age I am now. Even now, I can easily give respect and responsibility to someone younger than I. When I retired from teaching, I think I was the oldest person in the school, and I’ve had younger pastors at church for years. I have no problem with someone in authority who is younger than I, but when someone asks me for guidance, I sometimes wonder, “Why are they asking me? Surely there must be someone more knowledgeable on the subject than I.” I appreciate their questions but somehow feel unqualified to answer.

     Dad was one of those people who in my mind always knew what to do in any situation. He had a master’s degree in “living.” Born the fourteenth child of fifteen children to Levi and Ida Lillian Downing of Granite, Oklahoma, he grew up like many children during the Depression with a formal education being secondary to working in the cotton field and helping to support the family. He always had a gift for math, and when the time came that he had to drop out of school in the seventh grade to help with the family full time, his teacher went to his parents and begged them to let him stay in school. He dropped out anyway.

     Working as a laborer, then as a carpenter, he went to an Indian Pow-wow (a gathering of Indian tribes…common in Oklahoma then and in some areas even today) and met the love of his life, Ethel Mai New. They married in 1938. In 1939 the financial struggle of Levi and Ida Lillian Downing came to a climax, and they lost their farm. Hearing that there was work in Houston, R.L.(as my dad was called), Ethel, his parents, and several brothers moved to the Gulf Coast. On December 7, 1941, the U.S. entered World War II, and dad suddenly found himself learning to drive a Sherman tank in the U.S. Army, after which he was shipped to the Aleutian Islands off the coast of Alaska, where the land was so boggy tanks could not be used.  (It was the Army...go figure.) In 1943, they had a beautiful baby boy (namely, me), and with mother having some health problems, Dad was given a discharge and allowed to come home. Within a year, mother’s health improved, but finances didn’t, so dad went back to the Aleutians, this time as a contract carpenter.

Dad returned after less than a year and finances were much better. Seeing that construction was still booming in the Houston area, Dad formed Downing Roofing Company, made up primarily of his brothers and local laborers. The company was a success, and afforded the family a modest level of comfort.

     I’ve always said that I was thankful that I was the oldest of the four children born to R.L. and Ethel Downing. The reason is I was able to see my parents when they were in their prime of life. Dad was always a good softball player, and Mom enjoyed her tennis. Many evenings I spent on the sidelines as Dad played the position of catcher on a softball team. He was a good “glove,” a good hitter, had an arm like a rocket, and could run like a deer. Maybe that’s why my favorite position became catcher when I began to play ball. I enjoyed pitching, but I was only average, at best.

     My sisters don’t remember this, but the Downings lived life pretty hard in those early years. The Downing brothers and wives would come to our house and play cards and dominoes all night. The smoke would be so thick you couldn’t see across the room, and the beer flowed freely. I had an aunt who was a really serious domino player, and, since I was just a kid doing the noisy things kids do while she tried to play dominoes, she would sneak me a coffee cup full of beer to try to get me to settle down. I don’t think it worked. (I told Mom this story years later, and she nearly fainted!) I still remember some of the old country and western songs that would be blaring out from the phonograph as everyone laid down their dominoes. But all that changed one Sunday morning.

     Dad’s brother, Orville, and his wife, Reba, had begun attending a Pentecostal church in early 1949 (which stopped their smoking and drinking) and began to pester Dad and Mom about attending. After dozens of “not this week,” for some reason Dad and Mom said yes and went to church. It was a defining moment in their lives. Within a matter of weeks they had received the Holy Spirit and changed their lifestyle. Their lives became centered around the church, and it changed the way we children were raised. Our home became a foundation on which we could build our lives. We learned principles of honesty, integrity, Christian living, and parental guidance. Dad was the head of the house, but he treated Mom with love and respect, and we were all considered when a household decision had to be made. We kids grew up knowing that Mom and Dad would be there when we needed them for support.

     Dad had a major heart attack in 1982, and retired from Downing Roofing Company. He spent his time gardening and visiting grandkids. He had eight quiet years of relative relaxation after a lifetime of hard work. He deserved it.

     In December, 1990, my family was living in Casper, Wyoming. For Christmas we traveled to Mom and Dad’s home in Baytown, Texas, for a two week visit over the holidays. We were to leave to return to Wyoming on the morning of December 31, a Monday morning. Sunday night we had all gone to church and enjoyed a wonderful service. As is the habit of many Pentecostals, we decided to go somewhere to eat after service. We went to a local IHOP and visited, ate, and enjoyed everyone’s company once more before we were to leave the next morning at 7:00.

     At 4:00 a.m. there was a pounding on our bedroom door. My wife and I ran into the living room and found Mom with Dad, who was slumped over in his favorite rocker. We called for an ambulance, but in ten minutes, it was over. Dad was gone. The next few days were a blur as we went through the mourning, funeral, and future planning. Little did we know that this event would set in motion the events which would culminate in my family moving back to Texas. But that’s another story.  Also another story is the fact (belief?) that I had a conversation with Dad early one morning on the back deck of our home...eighteen years after his death ( See my blog "The Visit.")

     We hear a lot about legacies and influences on our lives. We are a product, to an extent, of our environment. But even more than our environment, it is our attitude that determines the avenues we take in life. I was very grateful that I was able to experience both a healthy, nurturing environment and a positive attitude from my parents. Their inner strength and ability to calm whatever storm life sent us gave me a pattern from which to govern my own life.