Getting to Know Joaquin Arambula

Written by Dale Buchanan

Good afternoon, Big Red friends. I am with Dale and Gayle at Teazer World Tea Market in the Tower district. With another meeting scheduled in the next hour, I was accompanied by my local Office Manager Anna and Felicia, my Director of Communications. We found a big table and settled down for the interview that would allow me to tell what Dale called, “my story.”

Dale had an official website biography that ended with a one sentence paragraph: “Dr. Joaquin Arambula and his wife Elizabeth live in Fresno with their three children.”  Dale preceded to explain that he was looking for a personal picture—more like a Brownie camera snapshot than a studio portrait, so the following is my informal snapshot biography.

It seems to me that the best place to begin is at the beginning and that would be Delano, California, a small town north of Bakersfield whose main industry is agricultural—mainly growing table grapes. The original Spanish word “delano” means of the night or may be translated “dark.”  I was born in Delano and my memories are at the very best “dark” in the sense that I have no clear memories of my beginnings and my first six years. My story begins when we moved to Fresno at age six. 

To explain my story, it is necessary to lift the curtain of darkness to even before my birth in Delano. My parents met as students at Harvard University, and my favorite story from that long ago says much about my dad Juan and my mom Amy. It was my dad’s birthday and a girlfriend dared Amy to throw a piece of birthday cake in Juan’s face. To the delight of everyone, she did! As Dad tells the story, he had two choices —either he could hate this feisty, opinionated young woman, or he could marry her. He chose marriage and they became lifelong partners.

Mom remains feisty and opinionated and we all continue to draw support from her strength and ability. Dad remains our inspiration. An original glass-ceiling breaker, he was the first in the family to go to university, the first Latino County Supervisor, a trail-blazer, and champion of his community. Dad and Mom are in reality the beginning of my story.

I am proud to call Fresno my home and my roots are firmly planted in the Tower district. I went to Heaton Elementary School across from Fresno City College, and Edison Computech, and still I felt unprepared when I went to Bowdoin College in Bruinswick, Maine. This feeling persisted and for the first time I felt motivated to help those who had no one else to help them. 

Next it was the University of Minnesota Medical School. Following graduation, I returned home and served for ten years as an emergency room doctor at Selma Adventist Hospital. As an ER doctor I saw the underbelly of society and became firsthand acquainted with the acute shortage of doctors and services needed to care for the underprivileged. 

I loved being able to help people directly in ER and never wanted to give it up. There is nothing like walking into a room and being able to ask, “How may I help you?”  Standing by a patient’s bed is problem solving at its most basic level. I never wanted to leave that environment but as the years passed, I was reminded how my parents involved me and my brothers and sisters in political campaigns. We were part of the action. We felt empowered and experienced the heady sensation of knowing that we could actually bring about change in our community. Slowly, but surely, I became convinced that in the transformative climate of politics, I could serve more people more effectively than I could in ER. It is true that the hands-on thrill of saving a life is an exhilarating experience, but it is also true that the groundbreaking of a community college in an impoverished Fresno neighborhood will over the years lift untold numbers out of poverty and into functioning members of our community. Serving as a state legislator makes such groundbreaking ceremonies possible and that too is exhilarating.

After an earthquake in Haiti, a friend and I did volunteer medical relief work. It so happened that this friend had a sister. When we came home, he introduced me to Elizabeth and I fell like a ton of bricks. We had one date, a thirty-day tour of Europe, and I was convinced she was the one for me. We were married and have been blest with three wonderful daughters: Avianna, 10, a budding pianist, Scarlett, 7, conquering the violin, and Kennedy, 4, figuring it out.

When I was a young boy walking to Heaton Elementary School, I passed through the beautiful Wilson Island neighborhood and promised myself I would someday live there. That dream has come true, although I did not get to pick the house. Elizabeth called me a couple of years ago and informed me that we had bought a house and gave me the address so I could get home. 😊

Big Red Church is my spiritual home. The most grounding thing I do is take my girls to church every Sunday. I am drawn here by the diversity of people who are to be found in the pews. There is an obvious ambiance I feel each time I step through the front doors. I love the location. I literally grew up across the street. And last but not least, the music is artistic, dynamic, and powerful.

Thank you, Big Red Church for giving me the opportunity to step from the pews and tell my story.

Getting to Know Wade Hobson

By Dale Buchanan

Just after our first column appeared, there was a thank you note in the Grapeleaf to Wade Hobson and Jeff Jones for cleaning the bell tower. I did not know Wade or Jeff. I wrote their names in my little book thinking here’s a story—the Big Red Church may have its own Hunchback of Notre Dame!  I promptly forgot this story until Pastor Raygan mentioned Wade’s recent heart attack. The amusing thing was that Wade was in the choir loft waving as this sad news was delivered. Yours truly left the service that morning determined to feature Wade in our “From the Pews.” 

My editor and pew person prospector recruited Wade via email, and the first thing you know, Gayle and I were sitting in Wade and Jeannie’s home snacking on tea and cookies while Wade shared stories with us. I asked about cleaning the bell tower, and he was off to the races.

“Ara Gueguezian was our interim minister and felt called to ring the bell. No one had been up in the bell tower for a while, and our hands-on minister decided to check it out. Up the stairs he went where he encountered a plywood barrier. Not to be deterred, our intrepid pastor lifted the board up and was immediately showered with a downpour of pigeon poop. It was Wade and Jeff to the rescue. Our first excursion skyward revealed Pastor Ara’s assessment had been correct. Fresno’s ever-present pigeons had breached the screen barricades and taken up residence in the tower. Properly protected with coveralls and face masks, the pigeons were driven out and the filth removed with shovels, buckets, and a vacuum. New screens were installed. It was a nasty job, but Pastor Ara got to ring the bell!

Hobson is an Anglo-Saxon surname meaning son of a shoemaker. A popular English saying is ‘Hobson’s choice,’ and the story goes that a stable keeper named Hobson insisted that you could only rent the horse tethered nearest the stable door—thus, Hobson’s choice.

I was born and raised in Santa Maria. Dad was born in Tennessee and migrated to California when he was 21. His ticket was to San Jose, but he never made it to that fair city because the conductor never called out San Joes with the “J” sound, and he was finally put off the train. Mom was from a prominent family in Paso Robles and dad from a not so prominent family in Tennessee and the story of their meeting at a prize fight in Bakersfield is shrouded in mystery. They were married in 1927.

I grew up on the Central coast and the crimes of my youth were committed Pismo Beach and Morro Bay. My dad passed away when I was eleven years old. My favorite recollections of him always find me riding shotgun with him in his old Chevy pickup when I was about five or six years old and dad was a pumper for Standard Oil making his rounds. 

While most children have stories read to them to fall asleep, my mother read to me when I was waking up from a nap. I remember her holding and rocking me while she read A.A. Milne’s stories of Winnie the Pooh. I identified with Eeyore the left-handed, depressed donkey. Although I’m not depressed, I am left-handed. Eeyore is still my spirit animal!

Working as a theater doorman, I was attracted to a “chick” standing at the end of the candy counter. That “chick” was Jeannie. We recently celebrated fifty-four years of marriage. There have been good days and bad days, days of joy and days of heartbreaking sorrow. We tolerate each other when we have to and love each other the rest of the time. We agree that we got married for all the wrong reasons and stay together for all the right reasons. We are best friends. We raised four of our own children and a “son” from Zimbabwe.

Some are called to their profession. I worked for the state Employment Development Department for thirty-seven years—half of that time as vocational counselor and half as computer support, but I cannot say I felt called to it. And my passion for technical theater and sound production was never so much a business as a hobby out of control. When I learned that Camp Tamarack was going to be closed, I felt a call to step in as the manager of the camp. I was retired, had the necessary knowledge needed, and the know-how to deal with the political stuff. Unlike Jonah, who tried to ignore God’s call, I accepted this call willingly. I am convinced that this ministry must survive for future generations to provide a safe and nurturing place for even the most disadvantaged children. The core support for this vital ministry comes from Big Red. It is my prayer that my fellow pew members will also feel called to support this ministry not out of duress but willingly.

My dream is to improve and enlarge the camp facilities, begin training the next generation of volunteers, maintain a relevant curriculum, recognize that it is at church camp many are first called to the ministry, and acknowledge that summer camp is a training ground for the next generation of church leadership.

There have been two miracles in my life. The first was as a child I caught my arm in the ringer of an old washing machine and my mother had to run my arm back out. There was a possibility that I would lose my arm, but I didn’t. The second miracle was my recent heart attack. A major artery was 100% blocked. Immediate action to insert a stent resulted in no heart damage and my prognosis is for complete recovery within six months. That means I will be good to go for Camp Tamarack this summer!”

Getting to Know Mary Wall

By Dale Buchanan

Stepping out of the pews this week is Mary Wall.  I am sure that you will recognize Mary who has served as the spokesperson for the Stewardship and Sustainable Growth Committee the last several weeks.  Asking for money from the church family is always a delicate proposition and money pleas are not one of my favorite things about church life. The gentle attitude and gracious spirit that Mary used to present the committee’s program disarmed even this old curmudgeon. 😊

From the beginning Mary has been on my list.  After observing her work from the lectern these past weeks, I sent Gayle to convince her.  And it worked. 😊 Instead interrupting her lunch during fellowship time, Gayle sent an email and a positive response came back almost immediately.  Mary and Gayle arranged the time and place and the three of us spent a delightful Saturday morning gathering material for this condensed autobiographical sketch.

“Dale charged me with telling my story along with a threat that he would use what he calls “poetic license” to fill in any blanks I might leave in my narrative.  I see Gayle making notes and I feel certain that everything will be on the up and up.

I met Peter in law school.  He was a night student and I had day classes.  The common denominator the first year was reading each other’s blogs.  The second year we shared some of the same classes but had different study partners.  Both shy and introverted, the last year of our three-year program found us study partners and best friends.  I found him to be hilarious, witty, a fast typist, a fast thinker, and he was our class valedictorian. I liked him! We graduated law school in May of 2008, studied for the bar exam together, and both passed it in November of the same year.  We were married in October 2009, and we have just celebrated our 10th anniversary.

My passion is law, and I have served it in one form or another my whole career.  From the very beginning I have felt a strong sense of justice. During my law student days, I served in the District Attorney’s office.  I began my profession as a deputy prosecutor enthusiastically pursuing the bad guys. I was fixated on delivering justice. Like the person with the proverbial bee in her bonnet, I pursued justice. While my enthusiasm for justice remained, after ten years the office politics and drama were beginning to wear on me.  The competition for convictions seemed to outweigh the search for fairness and equality. This sense of discontent led me not away from the law but to a different place to serve my passion for justice. 

I serve today as a Parole Board Commissioner appointed by the governor.  There are seventeen of us who serve state prisons from one end of the state to the other.  Each of us works with a Deputy Commissioner, and we may be called to any prison in the state, although my partner and I are most likely to be found in the Central Valley between Galt and Tehachapi.  I love what I do. The best way to explain my affinity is to contrast the prosecutor with the parole commissioner. The prosecutor’s job is to prove guilt and lock you up. My job as a commissioner is to determine a potential parolee’s risk to society and grant or deny parole.

There are several steps required before we grant or deny parole.  The first part of the process is the prep work. This includes such mundane tasks as setting up hotel reservations to the complexities of reading the inmates file which could include up to a thousand pages.  There is a psychologist report to digest and incarceration histories to consider before the actual hearing.

At the scheduled hour we gather in a conference room.  Typically present will be the inmate and his attorney, the prosecuting D.A., the commissioner, the deputy commissioner, and next of kin to the victims. Everyone in the room has an argument to present, a stake in the decision that I will ultimately make.  My task is to be a good listener, to carefully discern each speaker’s motives, and to determine if I am hearing the truth. Because, after all is said and done, I am charged with assessing the risk to society if the inmate is released back into the civilian population.  The courts have mandated that the prison population be reduced, but this is to be accomplished only by releasing the right people. My job is to protect the public and that feels like justice; and my job is to release the right inmates and that feels like justice.

I guess my story would not be complete without mentioning that Peter and I are infected with the travel bug.  I caught it from my love of English history and watching jousting on TV. Peter was interested in seeing a famous cathedral in Barcelona.  These two destinations only increased our itch, and a year later found us on another tour visiting castles and Roman ruins. Then on our recent 10th anniversary, we celebrated on the California coast in a cottage just south of Carmel and took in the unparalleled beauty of the Pacific shore.  Next year, a guided tour that follows the steps of Paul on his mission around Turkey is on the agenda. Our bucket list also includes Greece, Scotland, and Egypt.

Peter was raised a Mennonite, and I was Roman Catholic.  Four years ago, we attended a Christmas concert at Big Red and were so impressed that we decided to attend the Christmas Eve candlelight service.  That January found us in regular worship and every Sunday since then.”

Getting to Know Deanna Householder

By Dale Buchanan

My husband Harold and I were married in an Episcopal church, attended Big Red on Easter Sunday–the first Sunday after our wedding. And Big Red has been our church home ever since. My name is Deanna and I am honored to have the opportunity of sharing with all of you this short story autobiography.

Way down in the southern end of California’s Central Valley, there is a sleepy, little town called Taft. Daddy graduated from college as an engineer and was hired to run the refinery for the oil company in Kern County where his dad had worked in the oil fields. I was born in Taft and memories of my first seven years there remain among my most cherished. 

I vividly recall the small rural village of Taft—one of those small towns you miss if you blink as you drive through. It was a wonderful place for a little girl. I could walk wherever I chose with one exception. I was not to go past the houses to the field where there was a horse. But I did. 😊  That horse and the little girl had many fascinating conversations across the fence. Our next-door neighbors had a son named Donnie and he had a Boston terrier. The three of us passed the innocent days of summer as if there were no tomorrow. Indeed, in my mind today, I can recall every street and every house just as they were in those blissful days of my childhood. 

We lived in Taft until I was seven years old. Then dad’s business took us to the Oakland hills. As an only child, I found the Oakland hills a perfect blend of rural and urban environments. Next to our housing development there was an open area with plenty of room for a little girl to explore and imagine a wilderness existence. At the same time, I had all the advantages of a suburban neighborhood. A school just a block away provided a large assortment of playmates, and there was a library just half a block down the street–the source of more books than I could possibly read. The habit of reading has stayed with me to this day. I belong to a book club and we are currently reading the best seller Where the Crawdads Sing. 

Seventh grade found us living in Fresno and me attending Hamilton Junior High School. Next it was Fresno High. I loved every minute of high school!  I joined and was active in every group available. I sang in the choir and in a trio, was in the Pep Club, and held student offices. I had more friends than you could shake a stick at, and we had a big group cry when graduation made us alumni instead of students.

I always knew I wanted to do something with science and my dream was to attend U.C. Davis and become a veterinarian. That was a difficult ambition for a woman in 1956, and I was told that the university discouraged women from entering that program. At that time, polio was at epidemic stages, and I decided to become a physical therapist to help children who were victims of polio. Since there was not a physical therapy program at Fresno State, I majored in child development. With that degree in hand and a scholarship from the Elks, I was accepted at the University of San Francisco and became a licensed physical therapist.

I came back to Fresno, married, and worked for the county in California Children’s Services. My career was put on hold with the arrival of my two children Mark and Kristy. I became a stay-at-home mom until the children were six and eight-years-old respectively. I went to work for the Lori Ann Infant Program which eventually became a part of Fresno Unified School District. It serves children with special needs from birth to three years of age and their families. After twenty years of working in this program, the school district told me I needed to have a teaching credential. I was not going to leave this work I loved, so I went to Fresno State and got a teaching credential, and I was blessed to work in this chosen field for thirty years. My experiences working with special needs children as a physical therapist were always exhilarating. Parents, who were totally numb, saw their children accomplish things they never dreamed possible. I brought them hope and I loved my job.

After serving in the Army, Harold came to Fresno State to get his education and play football at Fresno State. I was reluctant to date this huge football player at first, but time erased my anxiety. We were married in 1961, and our years together have passed the test of time for over fifty years. 

I am a survivor of breast and bladder cancer since 2002. I am determined to live my live positively. I find people, friends, and family the most important elements in my life. 

Since retirement I stay active mentoring kindergarten children at Hamilton Elementary School. I sing in the Big Red choir, and serve on Church Life ministry. I am active in the PEO Sisterhood which educates, supports, and motivates women. 

In thinking about my life challenges, I remember my bout with cancer, losing a son, going back to school to get my teaching credential, and the push and pull of family and work. 

My life has been rich and full and the list of things I want to do now is short—travel with Harold and spend as much time as possible with my grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Getting to Know Hilary Ross

By Dale Buchanan

Greetings, Big Red friends and family! I recently spent an afternoon with Gayle Thornton and Dale Buchanan. The following is an abbreviated account of our conversation.  So here goes.

I am an introvert. Let me be clear, being in introvert does not mean that I am shy. It means, I enjoy being alone. I NEED to be alone. Other people are basically “energy vampires.”   This is not that I am afraid of them, it just means that like being exposed to the sun, I must avoid over exposure lest they burn me.

My husband, Tony, who by the way is a great guy, and I have been a part of Big Red since our son Miles was about five years old and we wanted him to be involved in Sunday School. He is thirty now, so that was twenty-five years ago when we began searching for a church home. When we visited the Big Red Church, I remembered attending a Shakespeare play in the courtyard there some ten years previously. We found the Big Red Church a good fit for us.

Early on I became acquainted with my neighbor, Jean Linder, and a friendship was formed that has lasted through the years both as neighbors and members of the Big Red Church. Tony had never been a camper, so camping was not on our agenda as a family. Enter my friend Jean. “Listen you guys, little boys need to go camping, how about going with us to family camp at Camp Tamarack.”  We accepted and it was a great experience.

As I was growing up, music was hugely important to my family. Classical and jazz were a part of our daily diet. Mom was a musician and determined that her children would experience the joys of making music. In our first home we had an organ. For five years I was required to take lessons. My teacher’s name was Gertrude Deltch and to this day that name encapsulates the misery of those lessons. I never left a session that I was not in tears. Finally, we moved and the organ was left behind for a new house with a piano. The piano and piano lessons were a good memory. However, right on the heels of that pleasant memory came junior high and a talent show where I sang, “Cockles and Mussels.”  I am still embarrassed about that performance. Things evened out in high school when a girl friend invited me to try out for the choir at Hollywood Presbyterian Church. To my amazement I was chosen and not my girlfriend.:) 

When Tony and I landed at Big Red, I was totally involved in my career and family, so music was not high on my list of priorities. Enter again my friend Jean. “Hilary, why don’t you join the choir with me. I know you can sing.”  I offered excuses but finally submitted to her gentle persistent arguments. The years have flown by and lifting my voice with the church choir continues to bless me.

One of my favorite things is playing in the Big Red bell choir. This is another thing I owe to my friend Jean. My phone rang and it was Jean. “We have an emergency and need a bell ringer. You have to come to the rescue.”  That was many years ago. I still approach playing the bells with an intensity and reverence not easily explained. I play eight bells and it is demanding, but I joke that it is staving off dementia. 

Dad had his pilot’s license and we often took family vacations flying. One such memorable trip was to the southern tip of Baja. The plane had no instrument control and all navigation was visual. My two brothers and I entertained ourselves with word games and song ditties. To our mother’s consternation, we kept chanting “the family that flies together, dies together” as Dad searched for visuals that would deliver us safely to our destination.

With a BA degree in Spanish from USC in hand, and married to Tony—the new District Attorney in Fresno—I  went to night law school and loved the classes. I feel blessed to have spent my career in areas where it was possible to make the world a better place. My professional life can be divided into three phases. I spent the first phase prosecuting bad guys in the DA’s office here in Fresno.

The second phase materialized when a colleague asked me to run his campaign for state legislature. I took a leave of absence and got involved in politics. After a successful campaign, my colleague was elected and offered me the position of chief of staff. I accepted this challenge and spent the next ten years involved in the mechanics and intrigue of state government commuting weekly from Fresno to Sacramento.

I am now on the third phase of my career serving in the Residency Program at the University of California, San Francisco as Risk Manager and Privacy Officer. My job here is far removed from the days I served as a criminal prosecutor to now being charged with civil law ranging from how to handle law suits to teaching. 

My story ends more or less where it started. When son Miles was about eight years old, I answered the phone and it was friend Jean Linder. “Hilary, there is a dog that needs and a home and he would be the perfect pet for your family. He is a Border Collie and his name is Kid. He could be Kid Ross. Round up Miles and I will take you to meet him.”  The owner said we could take Kid home for the weekend. I knew Tony did not want a dog, but we risked it and took him home anyway. Tony protested, but the next morning I overheard him cancelling a golf date because HE had a new dog.:)  

Getting to Know: Ron Atteberry

By Dale Buchanan

I am happy to introduce today’s “From the Pew” person: Ron Atteberry. He and his wife Shirley were among my first acquaintances at Big Red. In the beginning I would have described Shirley as extroverted and social and Ron as introverted and reserved. I had Shirley pegged right from the get-go. 😊 Ron is a different kettle of fish. Although introverted and reserved he is a man not quite as reserved as one might think!

Recently Gayle and I knocked on Ron and Shirley’s front door. After pastries and ice tea, I explained how we would proceed. “If I ask a question you don’t want to answer, just say “no.” Ron nodded in agreement. “Where were you born?” His deadpan reply “no,” caught me by surprise and was the first of many examples of Ron’s sense of humor and dry wit.
This storyteller prides himself on the use of poetic license. I quickly realized that I was in the presence of a man who tells his true stories giving his imagination full play. I like to feel in control when stories are being told, but I gave up and allowed this quiet man to tell his story in his own words.

“Dale, I was born in Amarillo, Texas.” I knew better, but even knowing he was setting me up I asked, “Where did you grow up, Ron?” “Well, sir, I haven’t grown up yet,” a line delivered with just enough Texas twang to say, “Haw! I got you again, boy.” This time I truly gave up and allowed Ron to tell his story in his own way.

“What I remember about Amarillo is that the summers were hot, the winters were cold, and I loved to play outside the year round. This love of the outdoors has been with me until this day. After Word War II, work was scarce to non-existent in Texas. We moved to Sacramento where I attended first grade. Sacramento was not a good fit for my family. Dad found a job with the railroad in San Francisco and we lived in Daly City where I attended school from second grade through ninth grade. We then moved to Sunnyvale where I graduated from high school in 1959.

Before I talk about college, just a bit more about childhood. In Sacramento we lived with my grandparents and I loved it. Their house was in the city with running water and an indoor toilet. Baths were in a wash tub on the back porch. The neighborhood was filled with children, and I spent every possible moment playing with those kids. In Daly City it was the same thing. Hours spent playing childhood games from tag and hide and seek to baseball in the street. A favorite memory, which seems almost unbelievable now, was riding my bicycle to the airport and pedaling out to the maintenance area where I was allowed to sit in the cockpit of those planes. Such a different word and a wonderful time to grow up worry free and playing. 😊

Back to college and the real world. The years, more or less, ran together as life happened. It took nigh on to thirty years for me to earn a Bachelor’s degree in Business and a Master’s degree in Systems Management. My first college experience was San Jose State and after three semesters studying electrical engineering, I knew it was not for me. I dropped out and joined the Navy. My plan was to see the world and get training in electronics. I never set foot on a ship, so I did not see the world, but the Navy taught me a trade, self-reliance, and discipline for which I am most grateful.

After the service I went to work for IBM and was trained internally as an IBM programmer. I spent seven years working for IBM and this experience opened the doors for all my subsequent work experiences. San Jose, Fresno, San Diego, Reno, marriage, children, divorce, education and a thousand other experiences have blended together to form the collage which is my life’s story.

I began losing my hearing while still in the Navy. Today without my cochlear implant I hear nothing. This implant has been a life changer. I had it implanted on my right side so I could hear Shirley talking as we traveled in our RV. (Dale’s aside: this is true love)
I met Shirley at a management meeting when I was Director of Information Systems for the school district and Shirley was an elementary school teacher. This meeting proved to be another life changer. We courted for a year and a half and were married in April 1993. I cried and my beloved smiled.

Forgive me for waxing philosophical. As a boy I had two great ambitions—major league baseball player and airline pilot. Neither of these dreams were to be. A pilot was out because of my poor vision and I couldn’t play baseball because I was klutzy.
I retired from Fresno County as Manager of Computer Operations. My retirement pleasures are spending time in our pool, barbequing, going on cruises, collecting and reading hardback thrillers with lots of Russian spies. I do crossword puzzles in ink and want to get back to playing golf.

I am drawn to Big Red by the music, the people, and am pleased that it is an open and affirming congregation that is as liberal as I am. It is a good fit.

I love Italian food and Shirley.

This is my story and I am sticking to it. 😊

Pennies from the Pews

By Dale Buchanan

Every Sunday morning at Big Red Church something wonderful happens.  Well, the truth is many wonderful things happen. However, my very favorite wonderful thing is when the pastor sits on the chancel steps and that familiar tune, “Draw the circle wide,” invites our children from the pews.  Until those familiar chords are struck by the choir master everything is under control—stately and beautiful. The happy sound of that delightful gathering song elicits a joyous explosion as the children from Big Red pour out of the pews and head toward Pastor Raygan who sits on those steps grinning from ear to ear.

I happen to believe that this a magical moment—not just for the children, but for all of us.  Those children scurrying to that Sunday morning rendezvous provide a welcome sense of joy to all of us who have occupied the pews for many long years.  A casual glance around shows smiles everywhere as the children step out of the pews. Little boys not to be restrained fly down the aisle bent on being first.  Little girls already determined to behave as mothers have instructed move lady-like to their places near the pastor. Young mothers and an occasional father bring the tiny ones, reluctantly release their hands and anxiously take a seat on the front row to be ready to rescue the baby if needs be.  Next, the pastor welcomes them with a “Good morning!” They respond half-heartedly and then roar when it is suggested that they can do better. The delightful sound of happy children reverberates off the walls, and this old man is reminded that Jesus said, “Suffer them to come unto me.” Surely this moment of shouting by youngsters, who are comfortable in a place of worship, is a “good suffering” for those of us not so young anymore. 😊

Pastor struggles and imposes a semblance of order while old guys like me are actually praying for the kids to respond innocently to his questions in some totally unexpected way that leaves him stammering and us laughing out loud.

Last Sunday Pastor had in mind to teach the kids about giving and receiving.  To accomplish this goal, he and several helpers handed out big handfuls of pennies to all the kids.  Then he asked how they would spend these pennies. While most answered with “feed the hungry” responses, there were just enough off-the-wall answers to keep most of us smiling if not laughing out loud. 

This holding of pennies went on just long enough to let the kiddies establish a sense of ownership before they were instructed to go down into the pews and give away all of their newly acquired loot.  

I thought, “Well this is a hard lesson,” and I half expected grumbling and perhaps even downright refusal.  There was a quiet moment and more than one of those precious children opened their clutching hands and stared at those pennies.  Then Pastor signaled for them to go and as one they all moved into the pews and with radiant smiles began learning that it is better to give than to receive.

The little boy who approached me had a big smile on his face and handed me his last penny.  I said, “Thank you!” and he replied, “You’re welcome,” and in that moment we were both blest.

Thank you, Big Red Church, for sharing the blessing of your children in a joyful and meaningful way.  Thank you for making our gatherings truly sacred family worship experiences.

…And Gayle Broke Her Arm

By Dale Buchanan

A little over a year ago I agreed to write a weekly column called, “From the Pews.”  It has been an adventure from day one. Having a deadline was my first shock. Wednesday at noon my weekly piece must be in Kim’s hands.  When that was explained I had no idea how quickly Wednesday at noon would roll around. So I learned early on that the deadline is an integral part of writing a weekly column!

I realized early on that I could not wait until Tuesday night and just knock out a piece for the next day.  To meet this Wednesday deadline there are more details that Carter has little liver pills. There is prospecting for participants, overcoming stalls and objections, negotiating a time and place for the interview, and the actual interview itself—which in my opinion is the best part.  This is the first part of meeting the deadline and should happen at least 10 days before the magic Wednesday. Obviously this means that at least two columns and deadlines are always being juggled simultaneously.  

All of the above and I have not written a word.  Your prospective columnist understood immediately that to go forward he had two choices: (1) give up; or (2) enlist help and this is where Gayle, she with the broken arm, comes into play.  Gayle Thornton is one of those Christian women who cannot say “no” when called on to volunteer. I called her with my spiel written down and a list of counter arguments to her stalls and objections.  She answered the phone. We chatted and I made my pitch. When I paused for a breath, she said “yes” leaving me more than a little disappointed that I did not get to use my carefully prepared arguments to her objections.

The interview is the heart of the column.  Gayle, she with the broken arm, is charged with making copious notes.  I prompt the pew person who is encouraged to talk. From there it is to Gayle’s house and a review of her notes.  I take them home and if time allows, let them percolate for a couple of days. It is only then that I try to put anything on paper.  Next it is back to Gayle’s house and editing.

I mentioned above that the interview is my favorite part of the process.  My least favorite part is the editing. The sweet woman you all know is ruthless with her red pencil.  She corrects my spelling, finds endless mistakes in my grammar, and then goes to work on the content of the manuscript itself.  And the frustrating thing is that after I see the results of her critique, the column is always better.

Saturday before last we had a column ready for Wednesday’s deadline and a prospect for this week lined up.  Things were looking good! I was at Gayle’s house watching football. She said, “I am going to get my mail.”  I grunted okay and she strolled to the mail box. The next thing I knew, the neighbors came bursting through the back door half dragging the staggering Gayle into the house.  She had fallen face first on the asphalt drive that connects her condo to the other five units.

Shaking like a leaf, she had abrasions and bruises all over the place especially on her hands, her left arm and shoulder, and both knees.  She refused to go to ER and went to church on Sunday where she served as liturgist. On Monday morning she made a doctor’s appointment and after several days of consultations and at least three X-rays, it was determined that she has two fractures—one just below the elbow on her forearm and the other on her elbow.  Both should heal without surgery or casts, but the elbow will be Xrayed again and if it moves it will need to be pinned.

The week has brought more adventures than we bargained for.  One last thought. If you have been avoiding us, don’t relax.  Gayle has a sling and we will catch you sooner or later. 😊

From the Pews: Bob McParland

Written by Dale Buchanan

Last Thursday Gayle and I met Bob for lunch at La Boulangerie.  It was a beautiful October day. The blistering summer heat seemed to be behind us.  It was Bob’s lunch break and he insisted on treating. We had Monte Carlo sandwiches.  Gayle & I had potato salad and Bob had onion soup with his sandwich.

Meeting Bob was not a strictly social occasion although it was surely that also.  Bob had agreed to step out of the pews and share his history and story.

After we ordered and the food was being prepared, we settled down to the interview which has morphed into more of a conversation than a straight interview.  The conversation was lively and continued uninterrupted when the food arrived. This interview does not follow a strictly beginning to ending pattern. We were three friends sharing lunch and memories and one thing led to another, not necessarily in chronological order but in a free moving conversation.

Bob noticed Gayle taking notes and asked if she took shorthand.  She replied, “No, but my mom did.” Bob smiled and said, “So did my mom.  As a young woman she attended a business school in Visalia and was still proficient at her shorthand until she passed at age 102.”  And I had my first story about Bob’s mother.

“My surname is McParland, an Irish name, and my family heritage is Scotch-Irish.

When I was seven years old, my dad had bought me a Daisy BB gun and on a visit to my grandparent’s farm, I aimed up in a tree and killed a mockingbird.  Mind you, I had never shot anything and standing in Grandma’s front yard, I had killed a living thing with my gun. With that dead mockingbird lying at my feet, I was in a state of shock and very near tears.  Mom came out and comforted her boy explaining that it was all right since Grannie did not like hearing that mockingbird singing at night.

I was born in San Francisco and lived there until I was two years old.  We then moved to Burlingame and lived there through the fifth grade. When I was four or five, I hit a bump while riding my tricycle.  The handle bar jammed into me and caused a hernia. They took me to St. Mary’s Hospital in San Francisco for surgery. I don’t remember much about that except that I was not supposed to drink water.  The father of the boy in the bed next to me sneaked me a glass of water that tasted so good. Ironically, they were from Fresno.

The dampness of the Bay area caused me to develop asthma.  It was so bad that the doctor told my folks they needed to get me to a drier climate.  We moved here to Fresno when I was ten years old and ready to start sixth grade. In Burlingame I could only ride my bicycle a block or so without having to stop to catch my breath.  It was a new world to me to be able to play outside with no asthma!

Mother was the stalwart in our family and faced all problems stoically.  Raised a Roman Catholic, she left that church and remained unchurched. Dad had no spiritual leanings.  I did try going to Sunday School a couple of times, but there were just a bunch of rowdy kids and I never went back.  As a Fresno High School student, I went to the Big Red Church’s Sunday evening forums, but that was the extent of my experience with churches.

After graduating from high school, I enrolled at Fresno State.  Dad got sick and I dropped out to help with his business which was eventually sold.  Next it was to U. C. Berkeley until dad again needed my help with his builders’ hardware business.  I was married then, drafted, and divorced with no children. I returned to U.C. Berkeley and finished my degree in Business.

I married a second time for twelve years to a woman who had three young children.  We had three more including a set of twins for a total of six kids. It was with these children in tow that we started coming to the Big Red Church.  

Looking for a job, I went to work for A & M Carpets where I worked for seventeen years.  Thirty-one years ago, I opened Valley Rolls and Remnants at McKinley and Blackstone. We have just relocated to Blackstone and Lansing with a staff of eighteen people including salesmen, installers, and office personnel.  We sell wall-to-wall carpeting, area rugs, laminate and wood flooring, and some ceramic tile.

In high school there was a group of ten of us that ran around together.  Nine of those ten knew what they wanted to do. I was the odd ball and stumbled around for several years.

In my early twenties a good friend and I bought a sailboat and sailed from St. Thomas running into a bad storm.  We tried to weather it but ended up ship wrecked on a deserted island called Dog Island. After four days some native fishermen saw smoke from our fire and rescued us.  

I plan to keep working for another two or three year and dream of passing on the business to my son.  I am married to my business, so I am happy when it is doing well. I enjoy reading and am currently reading Apostles of the Revolution. 

Chief on my bucket list when I retire is to get back to fly fishing.  

What I cherish about the Big Red Church is the social relationships I have there.

From the Pews: Rosalie Brown

Written by Dale Buchanan

The diversity of the congregants of Big Red Church never fails to amaze me. Stepping from the pews this week is Rosalie Brown. This woman is a perfect example of the wonderful and amazing variety of Christians who worship and fellowship at Big Red. 

Rosalie was born in Jamaica City, a middle-class neighborhood in the New York City borough of Queens. For me, this fact alone is enough to establish the veracity of my claim to our diversity. I was born and raised in Fresno, the offspring of depression era Okies. As far as I know, I had never met anyone born in Queens. I most certainly had never heard of Jamaica City, and here I was sitting across the table from a woman with stories to tell. 

Gayle and I met Rosalie in the church parlor one afternoon last week, and we talked. Scheduling this busy woman had been difficult and Rosalie was pressed for time with another meeting right after our interview. I was so excited that I could hardly sit still as we engaged in the mandatory preliminary chit-chat. I got my chance when the ladies spoke of the Transitions group which was Rosalie’s next stop. The Transitions group is another of those groups that meet at Big Red that I had no idea existed. I asked, “what is a Transitions group?”   That question opened the door and we were off to the races. 

“Transitions is a small group of folks who fall into a broad category each of us trying to make sense of our lives. We deal with aging and provide emotional and mental support.”

My next question was, “How long did you live in Jamaica City?”  This led to a discussion of her childhood.

“We lived there just three or four years. Dad was a skilled mechanic and worked in the instrument shop of American Airlines. He organized the workers in a union. Management recognizing his business acumen, moved him into management which resulted in in a series of long-distance moves. This was good for dad’s career, but now so good for little kids.

Our first stop was Tulsa, Oklahoma. The school I attended when we first moved there was old and worn with no electricity—only natural light. We lived in Tulsa from kindergarten to fourth grade. My favorite memories of those years are learning the Golden rule, playing in the dirt, and loving the kids next door. It was there I learned a powerful lesson. Two girls get along fine, but add a third and someone gets picked on. In my case, it was me who got stuffed in a toy box with the lid slammed shut. They eventually let me out, but I was scared to death. Oh, and I remember I had a boyfriend in Tulsa at that tender age who gave me rides home from school on his bicycle. 

Next it was on to Dallas, Texas, for the fifth and sixth grades. I remember vividly the Russian Sputnik and its voyage into outer space. Then it was back to New York for junior and senior high school.

Mom was a creative artist. She worked on Fifth Avenue creating high-end jewelry. What I remember most is that she was a trusted employee who walked without fear from her place of employment to Saks Fifth Avenue with large sums of money. Another precious memory of mother is her taking us outside after a fresh snow and placing us on cookie sheets for sleds so we could slide gleefully down the driveway. 

After graduation from high school, I enrolled in Stonybrook State University as a chemistry major. I discovered almost immediately that this was not for me!  Dad took me to the University of Arizona in Tucson where I felt at home in the Architecture department. It was there that I met a fellow student named Wayne. We courted mostly at school. He was a year ahead of me and critiqued my presentations. Our common interest in architecture led us to marriage and children. We have been blessed with three sons and a daughter. The responsibilities of motherhood cut my studies short.”

Gayle asked, “Did you ever get your degree?”  “Yes, I did. When we moved to Fresno, I enrolled at Fresno State and received my B.A. in Landscape Design. With that degree in hand, I worked for three different landscape architects and then ran my own business. Much later I went back to school and obtained a teaching credential.”  I taught third grade for four and a half years, and now l substitute but only in high schools. 

To relax I read, practice yoga, and do weight lifting. I especially enjoy spending time with friends. I am a docent at the zoo and love to teach visiting classes about the Arctic and the Rain Forest.”

Rosalie, “I have noticed that you sing in the choir. Has music been a part of your life?”  “I sang in choirs in high school and college and have been in the choir here at Big Red for twenty-five years. And, we always had music in our home growing up. My father played classical music and mother loved dancing to waltzes. In fact, my mother and father met at a New Year’s Eve dance. 

Music has a long history in my family. My grandfather was a church organist. Grandma was teaching me to play the piano while my brother was getting professional lessons. When my parents decided to sell the piano, I was heartbroken. I put a note in that old upright piano begging the new owners to take care of my piano. Even now that makes me tearful.”