Category: Getting to Know You

A column dedicated to the folks in the pews.

Written by Dale Buchanan

I was born at home in a rented house on a 160-acre tenant farm. Counting me, we were five children in that tenant family. Moving was a regular occurrence for us as were hand-me-down clothes and multiple chores. Besides the farm, we always had dairy cows which we children were required to help milk. As soon as I was able, Dad handed me a stool and a bucket and I learned how to milk. I hated it!  We children came along about three years apart with twelve years between the oldest and the youngest. There were always cows to milk and hands to do the milking. We took turns doing the morning milking which started at 5 a.m. seven days a week. And after school we all shared in the milking and the other daily chores that were a part of life on a tenant farm.

Because of our age difference we tended to not be terribly close as children. My oldest sister was married at age seventeen when I was only seven years old. I became close with my siblings after we grew up and then the ties of childhood and family provided strong bonds that have endured a lifetime.

My best friend in junior high and high school was Suzie. She still lives in Kansas and we are still friends. I guess she is one of the best things that ever happened to me.

While I am talking about best things, I will mention the 4-H. I was a true-blue Kansas girl and was a member of 4-H for eleven years. My Guernsey milk cow was grand champion at the Kansas State Fair for five years in a row. As a 4-H member I learned to sew. When I was a senior in high school, I won the Kansas state-wide contest for modeling the suit I made. Wow!  I also learned to cook and bake a cherry pie.

(Your scribe must butt into Shirley’s story here because when she related the bit about the cherry pie her husband Ron started laughing and said, “Dale, I have been married to Shirley for 25 years and I have never seen a cherry pie.”  Yours truly quickly changed the topic. Shirley, are there any trees in Kansas? That did it and she moved on with her narrative.)

I was just going to tell you about Flint Hills—the place that I love about my native Kansas. It is true that there are miles of flat corn patches and wheat fields, but there are also many beautiful places as well. The Flint Hills are composed of rolling hills and a pretty countryside intersected with lovely creeks and streams. We had no close neighbors and that landscape provided me with a healthy view of nature and the good things about country life.

Speaking of a balanced life, Dad and Mom provided a very even environment for us children to grow up in. Dad was a wise, gentle, and loving man. He served as an elder in our country church. Mother was a strong-willed parent—determined that we would succeed. She pushed us to do better, and I see now how this combination was just what I needed.

(Yours truly has been acquainted with Shirley for several years now. I first met her in a book club where we have engaged in spirited exchanges concerning the meaning of the books we read. I am inserting this paragraph because I have just about used up my quota of allotted words, and I have discovered so much I did not know about this woman from Kansas. I wish I could share in detail her achievements in education, her two Master degrees, her years in the classroom and in administration. There is much to her story. This will be my last insertion in Shirley’s story. We pick up again with Shirley’s voice in response to my prompts.)

Ron and I have been married 25 years and there are many wonderful memories. On our first date I had just turned 50 and my staff had given me a birthday party. Ron was insistent that I tell him my age. I hesitated but finally confessed my years. His response went a long way toward making me love him. His reply to my confession was, “Thank goodness!  I thought you were too young for me.” That’s my story and the rest is history. Ron and I have four sons—two from my first marriage and two from his.

Dale, you asked me what cement binds us together and what my dream for the future is. As to the first question, we share values, friends, relationships, and agree on politics. My lasting dream is that I might be a good influence on my grandchildren and that I never forget that it is more blessed to give than receive.

Dale Buchanan is a member of FCCF with a passion for stories and writing. In between penning his own memoirs, he is helping us get to know our members, one pew at a time.

A column dedicated to the folks in the pews.

Written by Dale Buchanan

I received an anonymous post from a self-described “pew person” a few days ago.  I have been posting these “From the Pews” posts for several months and enjoying the interview process as maybe the best part of the whole thing.  No one has volunteered, although most have acquiesced when approached to be interviewed. I have learned how to counter the stalls and objections.  Gayle turns on the charm, we have lunch, and we get out story.

Your scribe has become more or less comfortable with this pattern and then suddenly there is this anonymous pew person.  WHAT TO DO?  After fruitless attempts to identify my unnamed author, it dawned on me that there are any number of folks that might be described as anonymous pew persons, and they need to be recognized for the vital part they play in the life of the Big Red Church.  

The following are the unedited reflections of the surprise anonymous pew person:

I first arrived at Big Red several years ago angry and bitter.  My church experience was—to say the very least—a disappointment.  For many years I had limited my church going to weddings and funerals. I was invited here by a woman, and in truth, I was more interested in her than church.  I agreed to come with her declaring that I would only come and would not under any circumstances get involved. I WAS TO ENTER AND REMAIN ANONYMOUS! I have done pretty good with that resolution, but along the way I have fallen in love with the warm and affectionate way I am greeted, and I have found the acceptance and lack of pressure to conform conducive to a pleasant environment and stress-free worship experience.

I have been trying for some time to understand this profound change in my attitude.  I think I may have found the answer. I am in the middle of reading a novel, A Prayer for Owen Meany.  In one section the author John Irving describes a Congregational minister:  “Pastor Merrill made religion seem reasonable. And the trick of having faith, he said, was that it was necessary to believe in God without any great or even reassuring evidence that we do not inhabit a godless universe. . . Mr. Merrill was most appealing because he reassured us that doubt was the essence of faith, and not faith’s opposite.”

So Big Red Church family, bless you for allowing me my anonymity.  Thank you for reassuring me that my doubts are “the essence of faith and not faith’s opposite.”

Dale Buchanan is a member of FCCF with a passion for stories and writing. In between penning his own memoirs, he is helping us get to know our members, one pew at a time.

A column dedicated to the folks in the pews.

Written by Dale Buchanan

Getting to know Pat is an experience that I highly recommend. A visit with her is like a ride on a whirlwind. When Gayle and I caught up with Pat, we were in three cars coming from three directions and on tight schedules intent on getting lunch and on to the next place on time. Pat and Gayle had arranged to meet for lunch and talk about Prayer Ministry. I learned about this meeting and more-or-less crashed the party. I convinced Pat that we could squeeze in an interview for this “From the Pews” post. She graciously agreed. We ordered lunch and they proceeded with their meeting. Before our lunches arrived, the ladies had agreed that they were going to need another meeting. I was delighted!

Pat had to go out the door at 1 p.m. It was just 12 noon giving me an hour. I had made myself an outline and Gayle was prepared to make notes. I was sure that I had everything going my way. I would ask a question, Pat would answer, Gayle would record her words, and I would go home and compose the essay I had more-or-less already planned by just filling in the dates, names, and places.

Wrong! This free-thinking, independent woman had other plans. I asked first-of-all where she was born. Unhesitatingly she began an account of a trip to India. We did get around to where she was born and grew up but that will come later. She was anxious to tell us about how a hummingbird led her to decide to travel to India to share her medical skills and how she came face-to-face with what she called cultural shock. Traveling a great deal of the time alone by train, she was profoundly affected when the native people asked, “Why do you do this?  You are not one of us and we are not of the same faith. Why?” She would answer, “Because of my faith.” This faith-filled experience continues to impact her life and she speaks of this time in India with awe.

Our lunches arrived and the narrative continued. Gayle trying to keep up, Pat telling us about her dad, mom, siblings, and growing up in the little town of Oak Harbor, Ohio. I ate my chili fries and loved her stories. Trusting both of these competent women, I was eating my lunch and blocking out a structure for this essay that was coming together in my mind when Pat switched gears and revealed another facet of her character. In this snapshot she was in nurses training. Her voice softened as she recounted the first time she held an old man’s hand as he lay dying. As it happened the old gentleman passed before the family arrived. When the family arrived they were so relieved that he did not die alone. “After that,” she said, “in my career as an ICU nurse, I made it my practice to never let a patient die alone. I always stayed with the patient holding a hand until the family came.”  

Then there is on her “bucket list” a dreamed of visit to Uganda and a chance to meet face-to-face with the thirteen-year-old African child she and Mike adopted through World Vision when this little boy was six-years-old.

My hour was almost over. I peeked at my watch and Pat caught me watching. “What time is it, Dale?”  I answered, and she said, “I must go.” “Just one more question,” I pleaded. “How did you and Mike meet?”  It is obvious that Mike is the love of Pat’s life. With that question, I had her and I am sure she was late for her appointment. “Mike has the biggest heart I have ever seen. Through thick and thin, good times and bad, his love has always been there. From breast cancer to brain tumor, his support has encouraged and uplifted me. Oh, and by the way, we met at an outdoor wedding where he ate three plates of food—more than I had ever seen anyone eat in one sitting. He called me three weeks later and the rest is history.”

Dale, three principles have guided me all of my adult life:  (1) God is sovereign, (2) God is in control, (3) God has a plan for me and every other person to fulfill his plan. As you read these principles and the stories I have written, I hope you can see between the lines this woman’s faith shining through from India to Africa to her home with Mike.

I will end with Gayle’s comment as we headed toward our cars, “Pat is a remarkable woman!”

Dale Buchanan is a member of FCCF with a passion for stories and writing. In between penning his own memoirs, he is helping us get to know our members, one pew at a time.

A column dedicated to the folks in the pews.

Written by Dale Buchanan

After playing phone tag for a bit, Gayle and I met Judy at Starbucks on a recent Wednesday morning. I was anxious to do this interview and was not to be disappointed. We chatted for about an hour and a half. I asked a few leading questions. Gayle made copious notes and Judy was able to almost uninterruptedly share her memories of a rich and fulfilling life. The following narrative more or less wrote itself.

“I was born and grew up in Dayton, Ohio. My earliest memories take me back to the small family farm and working behind the counter in Dad’s grocery store. We were a working family and my siblings and I received from the beginning a strong work ethic.

My mother was a quiet introvert who devoted most of her life to home and raising four children. She loved music—particularly opera—which played beautifully from her radio. Along with the radio there was always a current book on the stand.

I had one brother ten years old and another five years old when my twin sister and I were born. When my sis and I arrived, we lived in an upstairs apartment above the grocery store. Dad was so proud of his twins that he put in a glass window so customers could see his girls.

I have so many memories of Dad and the store. He kept the store open seven days a week from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. A fun time for me was getting up at four or five on Saturday mornings to go with Dad to the market to get chickens, vegetables, and canned goods; and then having breakfast with Dad in the cafeteria. A not so fun time involved glass soda bottles that were refundable in those days. Customers were allowed to mix their selections and their returned bottles had to be properly sorted for pick-up and refill. Those empties went to the basement—a dark, damp, musty room that I hated—but it was there that my sis and I had to sort the soda bottles for the vendors.

My clearest memory of childhood is Christmas Day. I understand that it was a German tradition for Santa to decorate the tree. How my parents managed it considering the long hours in the store I don’t know, but we children went to bed Christmas eve and awoke Christmas morning to a beautiful tree standing over a snowy yard—complete with a nativity manger scene.

Well, Dale, my sis and I were fraternal twins. We were not close growing up. She was a tomboy and I played with dolls. It was required that we dressed alike and were always in the same class. Once she got a spanking in front of the class and refused to cry, while I sat at my desk crying my eyes out. My brothers arranged fights for her before school, and for me they once arranged a bucket of water to spill on me when I opened a door. Despite our different personalities, my sis and I would grow to be fast friends.”

I must interrupt Judy’s narrative here. I would like to allow her to mention a favorite grade school teacher, a boyfriend named Butch who drove her home in a snow storm because he was afraid of her dad, and a host of other fascinating memories all of which have a rightful place in this chronicle. Space will not allow the entirety of this narrative, however you might ask her to tell you these stories. I, as your scribe, am determined that you get a sense of Judy’s great love story.

“While teaching school in Dayton, I met Abner Frost when he came to my church as a guest speaker. ‘Frosty’ served as a traveling minister to migrant farm workers and worked side by side with them as they followed the harvest season. We met in September and were married in June. I fell in love and became a preacher’s wife. That first summer a migrant couple came to us in camp asking to be married. Frosty married them and I baked them a German chocolate cake one layer at a time in a tiny toaster oven. It was a happy occasion. Sadly we learned later that this woman and her first child died at childbirth from lack of health care.

Exciting as migrant ministry was, we wanted to settle down and raise a family. While at a church in Alexandria, Kentucky, our two girls Lisa and Michelle were born. Then in Cincinnati while ministering at an inner city church, Paul was born. We arrived in Fresno in 1980 where Frosty was the first hospital chaplain at St. Agnes Hospital. Later he did a couple of interim ministries before pastoring Zion Congregational Church.

My husband passed away twenty-four years ago. I have continued teaching and now four days a week I work as a Reading Intervention Specialist at Roosevelt Elementary School, and Sunday mornings you will find me teaching at the Big Red Church. The highlights of my life remain the joy of ministry with Abner and the blessings we shared raising our children.”

Dale Buchanan is a member of FCCF with a passion for stories and writing. In between penning his own memoirs, he is helping us get to know our members, one pew at a time.

A column dedicated to the folks in the pews.

Written by Dale Buchanan

This is a Picture I Did Not Take by Sally Vogl

This is a picture I did not take of my thirty-year-old Mom and Dad lifting a tractor with their bare hands, knuckles whitened by their grip on the frame, their faces scrunched in anguish, and their feet stepping backward in unison, keeping one stride ahead of the garage’s leaping flames.

This is a picture I did not take of the possum prancing on my fence, holding my gaze so I wouldn’t look at his razor sharp teeth growing longer by the minute, teeth ready to bore into the wood of my skin, efficient as a high-powered drill.

Sally, our pew person this week, is a multi-talented woman. Among other things she is a published poet. The poems above are what she described as prompts composed to encourage and inspire her students and as I was to learn, Sally is first and foremost a teacher. This scribe loves poetry, but its composition has always been a complete mystery to me and caused me incompletes in every English class through high school. But as Sally and I talked and I read her prompts, I halfway believed that I might have been able to write something approaching poetic if she had been my teacher.

We will return to poetry later, but first there is a charming story about her German grandmother who came to America as an infant in the 1800’s. Grandma became ill on the passage and it seemed she had died. In that day and age, death on the high sea ended in burial at sea. Sally described the immigrant burial as “dumping the body in the ocean.”  Someone had the presence of mind to hold a mirror to her baby face. Her breath, feeble as it was, could be detected on the the surface of the mirror. And Grandma was saved.

From this sparse history our narrative moves to a small town in Central Montana where Sally’s mother was teaching school. Montana is very cold in the winter. As fate would have it the janitor who came every morning to get the school stove going was a young man. They fell in love, were married, and became Sally’s mom and dad.

Like a narrative poem, Sally next gave Gayle and me a glimpse of her childhood. Born in Lewistown, Montana, the family lived on a farm about five miles from town. When Sally was about twelve years old they moved into town and stayed there until she finished her junior year in high school. I wish I could do justice to her description of her childhood. It seems to me that the details are immaterial to the broad picture of her life and the woman she was to become. In her poetic prose she described to us long walks to the barn and visions of nature. I could and still can see the introverted little girl growing up surrounded by nature, surrounded by books, and absorbing a sense of self-reliance that has served her well all of her life.

In her quiet way Sally has always marched to her own drumbeat. She enrolled in the University of Washington, found the hectic pace of the large school not to her taste, and transferred to the smaller Denver Metro College where she received her bachelor’s degree. She then earned a Master’s degree in Blind Rehabilitation at Western Michigan University in Kalamazoo. After graduation there was two years in Duluth, Minnesota, teaching blind adults.

Next we find this adventurous woman in Lesotho, Africa, teaching blind children in an Anglican Missionary School. She served three years in this small African nation as a member of the Peace Corps, married a fellow Peace Corps volunteer and together they went to Aberdeen, South Dakota, where Sally had another stint teaching vision impaired children. This adventure just about brings us full circle and back to poetry.

The young couple moved to Fresno in 1985. Sally worked occasionally while her son and daughter were small and then became a full-time teacher for Fresno Unified School District retiring in 2015. When her daughter was in first grade her teacher asked Sally to write a letter for a school function. The teacher was impressed with the letter and encouraged Sally to pursue writing. This stayed with her and in 2013 she went to Fresno State and got a Master’s degree in Fine Arts. Today she teaches poetry classes to inmates at Pleasant Valley State Prison near Coalinga and at SATF (the Substance Abuse Treatment Facility).

Sally came to the Big Red Church by way of her children twenty-two years ago and has never regretted it for one moment. Certainly this shy, introverted woman from Montana has set an example for us of DOING UNTO OTHERS.

Dale Buchanan is a member of FCCF with a passion for stories and writing. In between penning his own memoirs, he is helping us get to know our members, one pew at a time.

A column dedicated to the folks in the pews.

Written by Dale Buchanan

Shirley was the first person I was introduced to when I came to Big Red. Gayle, my partner in this chronicling of Big Red Pew Persons, introduced us. I must confess from the outset that I do not pretend to be objective with this report. I like Shirley. I like Shirley a lot, and I make no apology for the bias that may appear in my brief account of her long, colorful, and productive life.

Shirley is a storyteller with a sense of humor. I fancy myself to be a storyteller even with a dash of humor as I spin my tales. However, when Saturday last we sat down in Shirley’s home, it was obvious that I sat at the feet of a master storyteller. Each time I asked a question, she responded with a story. I soon gave up trying to pin her down with dates, places, births, schools, and such like. They were footnotes and the stories revealed the gist of her life. So here, and in no particular chronological order, is a condensed version of Shirley’s story.

“Shirley, what was your major at Fresno State?”  “At age thirteen I began working at Swim Park, a public swimming pool located at Blackstone and Michigan. I started out with menial chores like cleaning the toilets and by the time I was in college, I had advanced to head cashier. As a freshman in college a program in criminology was offered. I went to my boss at Swim Park, the same man who had hired me when I was barely a teen, and asked for a letter of recommendation. It was a rather long and complicated form. One of his answers was, “As to the question of character, I can attest to the fact that Shirley McGrew is a character!’  He finally confessed it was a joke and produced a letter that got me accepted into the program. I wanted to be a juvenile probation officer, but my destiny was to be a Clinical Social Worker after getting a Master’s degree and doing graduate doctoral studies.”

Somewhere along the line I asked, “ What was Fresno like when you were a child?”  That was the right question and opened a flood of precious memories. “My father was a professor of speech for many years at Fresno State. While college educated, mother was a homemaker and always ready to lend a helping hand. She could be found in the kitchen at church and volunteered at The Garden House Tea Room where she was famous for her lemon meringue pies.

We lived way out in the country—a Clinton and Effie neighborhood. Dad attended all of my school and sports events. In our suburban community most of the children my age were boys. They played baseball, so I did too!  Once at a pick-up game on a vacant lot a new mother asked Mom which kid was hers. Mom replied, ‘the one with the pigtails.’

One of my favorite memories is of Daddy and me chasing the fire trucks when they came screaming down the street to a nearby fire. Dad taught us—me, my sister, and neighborhood kids—to play poker. Mom baked cookies, and we played into the night. Our home was always open to our friends. If I asked to invite a friend to dinner, the standard reply was: ‘We have four pork chops. You will have to share yours.’

The thing is, Dale, growing up in Fresno was a good thing. I had a pleasant childhood and lived in an environment conducive to happiness. We rode bicycles and roller skated. There was Kick the Can; Hide and Seek; Annie, Annie Over; Red Light, Green Light; and there was always baseball. I loved school and life was good.”

I could tell Shirley was getting tired, but I wanted more. “Shirley, I know you are getting tired but could you talk a little about Big Red Church.”  “Well, Dale, I was a member of this church before it was the Big Red Church. I guess you could say I came to Big Red Church because of a bump on the head. While my folks were shopping for a church home, I was a little kid and a friendly man lifted me up and accidentally bumped my head on the low ceiling. We never went back to that church. Our next stop was First Congregational Church of Fresno on Divisidero and San Pablo streets. I became a member at age sixteen while still at that old church. When those pioneer Christians made their vision a reality and moved to what we lovingly call the Big Red Church, we moved with them.”

“What makes you love this church?”  Shirley paused and thought that over. Finally she smiled and said, “Friendship. Friendship allows us to listen and discuss even when we disagree. And most of all friendship demands that everyone laugh at my jokes.”

“One last question, dear lady. What is your dream for our future?”  “It is my dream that Big Red Church remain always Open and Affirming, and that we as a group and as individuals always accept diversity and always like those who come through our doors.”  

Dale Buchanan is a member of FCCF with a passion for stories and writing. In between penning his own memoirs, he is helping us get to know our members, one pew at a time.

A column dedicated to the folks in the pews.

Written by Dale Buchanan

Stepping from the pews this time is Bill May. My first question was, “Bill, what brought you to Big Red?” His reply set the tone for the ensuing interview. He looked at me smiling with a twinkle in his eye, “Why, Dale, I came here because this church is open and affirming.” Until Bill and I sat down we were not acquainted. I knew he sings in the choir, we had said good morning a time or two, but this first response assured me that we were going to be friends. When lunch was finished and talking complete, I had a new friend at Big Red.

Born Horace William May in May, 1942, Bill and I missed sharing birthdays by just a couple of days. I had been thinking of him as a nice, old man only to discover that I am older by a few days than he is—which, of course, necessitates my reconsidering my notions about younger and older.

Bill’s surname May traces back into antiquity and Roman mythology. Maja was a Roman earth goddess and wife of Vulcan, and probably traces back to a root word translated, “She who is great.” His given names are equally interesting. The name Horace goes back to one of the most famous ancient Roman lyrical poets, and when spelled “Horus” the etymology takes us back to ancient Egypt and the Falcon god. His second name William is an old high German compound word: willeo (will or determination) and helm (protector and helmet). Literally: resolute protector.

When questioned about his parents, Bill’s first response was, “Dad was a jokester and loved tennis. The sport was his passion and his dream was for me to become a professional tennis player. I liked tennis all right, but my passion was music. I have often wondered how my life would be had Dad encouraged me as much in my music studies as he did in my tennis lessons.”

“My mom was a strong, midwestern woman, a devout Christian and famous for her home-cooked meals  An Indian baby drowned in the river and the community where Mom was born became Weeping Water, Nebraska. On a visit from California, Dad met her and they were married on Gospel Hill. Dad was forty-seven years old and Mom was thirty years old. She was married twenty years and lived a widow thirty years. She read to me!”

“I was an only child and grew up in many respects lonely. I guess I was what we today call a latchkey kid. My parents shared a great ambition for me to be successful in life. With their support I pursued my education from Kingsburg elementary and high school to Reedley Community College and finally graduated from Fresno State University with a degree in engineering. In 1967 I found myself with a wife and a position in upstate New York with Westinghouse. From New York we moved back to Central California and a long career in a construction related branch of Westinghouse. We were married seventeen years and blessed with two sons.

It seems to this reporter that at some point inspired by the music he loves, Bill found his true calling and spent the last fifteen years before retirement teaching emotionally disturbed children ages seven to twelve. Even today when he speaks of music there is a sense of joy and happiness in his telling that seems to have always been with him from the marching band in high school, to the California Opera choir, to an active part in a local band, and to participation in the choir at Big Red. Music has been and no doubt always will be Bill’s motivation and life force.

Dale Buchanan is a member of FCCF with a passion for stories and writing. In between penning his own memoirs, he is helping us get to know our members, one pew at a time.