Happy It’s-Almost-November, My Friend!
I love this quote: “I remember it as October days are always remembered, cloudless, maple-flavored, the air gold and so clean it quivers.” —Leif Enger, Peace Like a River. October in Florida is not cloudless, but I do love maple syrup. And as I write this to you, I’m in Wisconsin, looking out at Lake Superior, wearing a sweatshirt to stop me from “quivering” in the chilly temps! There’s nothing like fall. It’s the time of year I miss most when I’m living in Florida, so I’m thrilled to have a week of it in Wisconsin.
I always feel a bit nostalgic when I’m here, especially when I drive past my old high school, stop for fish fry at Patsy’s, and head to Bayfield for the shops and a maple latte at Wonderstate Coffee. And driving by my sweet childhood church.
Recently, a friend posted something on Facebook that made me feel uber-nostalgic: something Garrison Keillor once wrote about Methodists. You can read it here. I found it hilarious, but also spot on! My family belonged to the Methodist Church in our small hometown. My parents brought me to Sunday school every Sunday, and then we sat in the church service afterward. Some of my fondest memories occurred within the walls of that church.
Mr. Keillor begins his description of Methodists with this: “We make fun of Methodists for their blandness, their excessive calm, their fear of giving offense, their lack of speed, and also for their secret fondness for macaroni and cheese.” Now, I will tell you, hands down, those first four descriptors are correct. But I would say they can also describe Midwesterners. Perhaps we could combine the two into one: “Midwethodists.” (Wait! Before any Midwesterners take offense! Hear me out! I’m not saying we’re all bland—just not particularly “showy.” And I think my italicized plea here justifies my Midwestern need to “not give offense.”) About the fondness for macaroni and cheese, though. I’m not sure about that one. I don’t think I actually had it until I visited my college roommate’s home in 1980. But she was a city girl from the Milwaukee area and Episcopalian, so that explains that.
Another claim of Mr. Keillor regarding Methodists: “Methodists believe their pastors will visit them in the hospital, even if they don’t notify them that they are there!” This is because we, as Midwethodists, do not share our feelings. We prefer to stuff them down and tell people we’re “just fine.” But we do, in fact, expect others to read our minds and know what to say. We can be challenging that way sometimes, but it’s just the way we are. Love us or leave us. (But really—please don’t leave!)
Garrison Keillor also noted our love for coffee. And even if it was burning-hot weather outside, we would still serve coffee after service, and everybody would drink some. And please don’t be like the Lutherans and ask for cream and sugar. That’s just the devil talking. My parents, particularly my dad, would drink scalding hot black coffee like it was water.
Sunday school classes. Potluck dinners in the basement. Being an acolyte. Singing in the kids’ choir. Going to Vacation Bible School the first week of summer vacation. Discovering so many nooks and crannies in that old building. Going to youth group as a teenager. Playing piano on Sunday mornings for our church service. Our wedding. Our first child’s baptism. My dad’s funeral. All within those walls of 326 Washington Avenue, Washburn, Wisconsin.
Ah, but now my beloved church is no more. Oh, the building still stands, but because the congregation shrank and more money went out than came in, it had to close its doors. I drove past the other day and took a picture. I think it’s an apartment building now—or will be. It was odd to see Halloween decorations in its yard, a fence around an imaginary graveyard.
I’m so grateful for those cherished days at the Washburn United Methodist Church. It’s where I learned how to be a Midwethodist. It’s where I learned to respect my elders and sit quietly for an hour even though I wanted to race up and down the aisle. I learned to love singing the alto line on hymns, but not too loudly as to offend any sopranos sitting nearby. I learned not to make fun of the lady who always fell asleep during the sermon, but that she couldn’t help it. And not to laugh when her glasses fell off. (Phew, that was a tough one.) I learned that Jesus loves me; this I know, and that the Bible tells me so.
Do you remember your first church? I’d love to hear about it—and any memories it brings back!
Wishing you a lovely November and a wonderful, food-filled Thanksgiving! May your cozy socks be warm, your pie slices be extra generous, and your leftovers last just as long as you want them to.
Until next time…
Written with love – – – Patti XOXO
“Come to the church in the wildwood,
Oh, come to the church in the vale;
No spot is so dear to my childhood
As the little brown church in the vale.”
From The Little Brown Church by W.S. Pitts