Church News – Weekly Scripture Reading

By Dale Buchanan

Writing this “From the Pews” column is the most rewarding project I have undertaken in many years. And the most exciting part of this most rewarding project is the interview process. There is something about sitting down eyeball to eyeball and agreeing to talk, and something absolutely astonishing to suggest to someone that you are interested in their story and then to hear them speak openly and freely about their life experience.

This afternoon Gayle and I met with Peggy at a popular Mexican restaurant just across the street from Fresno High School and a block or so down the street from the Big Red Church—the perfect atmosphere for an informal interview. Peggy has a great sense of humor and after we ate lunch and chatted a bit we were ready to hear her story.

Born and raised in Fresno and when asked about her childhood, she replied: “I spent most of my childhood up a tree. And my best friend Rosalie was always up there with me. I wanted so badly to be a bird. My dream was to scoot out on a limb and fly far away to explore new worlds and experience the freedom of rising above the boundaries of gravity.

Our neighborhood was bounded by McKinley, Fresno, Clinton, and First Streets. A working-class neighborhood there were children in abundance. My mom once counted the kids playing in our yard and declared that there were twenty-five of them running wild. It was a great place to grow up. I met Kathy in high school and we became fast friends. Today after fifty-five years we remain best buds. The fair Rosalie flew away and we lost contact.

As a child I loved to dance. Mom swore that I danced before I walked. My passion became ballet and I continued to dance until I was seventeen years old. Perhaps my obsession with flying directed me toward ballet. On toe shoes the experience of ballet was as close to flying as any gravity-bound person could possibly achieve. To stretch, to soar, left me on the imaginative verge of actually being free to move into the heavens.

A pivotal moment in my life was my passion for sign language. This required education and a year at Reedley Junior College. Perhaps this is a good time to mention my other schools and where it led me. I attended Mayfair Elementary, Washington Junior High, McLane High School, Fresno City College, and Fresno State. I graduated from Fresno State with a B.A. and a teaching credential when I was forty-three years old and spent the next twenty years as a 4th grade teacher in the Fresno Unified School District. Back when I was in my twenties and thirties I was involved with a liturgical dance and sign language group called ‘Signs and Praise.’  We traveled all over California performing. Along the way came a couple of marriages, divorces, children, and grandchildren.”

If you remember, I reported that Peggy had a great sense of humor and it is just here in our narrative that this humor becomes evident. She told about working in an office job where she composed a soap opera spoof on life in the office called “As the Apple Rots.”  Then she volunteered that some of her marital difficulties might be traced to her lack of cooking skills. “I am just not a good cook. In fact, my second husband accused me of being afflicted with what he called ‘dyscooksia.’ His notion was to send me to remedial cooking school and then sue the teacher.”  It became obvious that Peggy uses humor as a coping mechanism and is an expert.

The stories flowed on. “Mother was a gentle soul, non-judgmental, artistic, quiet, and loved to dance as did my dad. Dad loved to sing, was always smiling, cared for his family, and was a highway patrolman.”

I asked Peggy about her current passion and this question sparked a story that I think says it all about this interesting woman.

“Dale, I went to Guatemala in 2002 with Heifer International to visit indigenous Mayan people. I have never been the same. If these people had a block house and a rusty tin roof, they were well off. If they had a cement floor, they were considered rich. For me, this was cultural shock. The abject poverty seared me beyond words. We traveled to a village in the hills where the conditions were primitive. The outhouses were down a slippery slope. It was necessary to cross a ditch and pass into a corn field to get to them. When we had to make that trek during the night, a chorus of roosters woke up the dark. I was scared to death. The man in the family I stayed with told me that as a boy he watched his parents slaughtered in front of him. I was so shaken by this whole experience in Guatemala that I hardly spoke for two weeks upon my return home.

My passion is for the poor. I believe that I can satisfy that passion at Big Red Church where I receive nurture and encouragement from the beautiful worship and then find available avenues to reach out and feed the hungry.

P.S. I also have a passion for genealogy!”

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.

Written by Dale Buchanan

My friend Gayle and I have just spent a lovely afternoon visiting Garner and his lovely wife Grace. The reason for the visit was to interview Garner for our “From the Pews” column. Gayle rang the bell. Garner opened the door and we were received graciously into their home. It was obvious when we stepped across the threshold that a warm and comfortable love lives here.

Garner embraced my friend and led her into the dining room where Grace was working a jigsaw puzzle. I followed along behind and observed the wonder of a roomful of love where these three friends began an animated conversation.

Somehow it seems to me that the environment and atmosphere of this love-filled home must be explored briefly. Garner and Grace have reached their golden years together. Their home is a beautiful collage of life. Every room contains artifacts from the four corners. For twenty years they circled the world. Garner served as a cruise ship pastor. His ship became his parish, the passengers and crew members became his congregation, and works of art came home as souvenirs of their ministry of love.

“Dale, I love peanut brittle and a good thriller novel to relax. My passion is writing thrillers. When I am caught up in a story I am there. The characters and places are alive in my imagination, and they become so real that I can hardly let go of them. Right now I am working with Jan Stevens—an excellent teacher and editor. I want to perfect my writing style. I guess my favorite thing about writing is the research. Jan is helping me transform that research into more relatable stories.

My dad migrated to the United States from England as a teenager, and my mom was a Pennsylvania farm girl. He was Presbyterian and she a Baptist. They met at seminary where their romance bloomed. The long and short of it is they married. My father became a minister and my mother built herself a career in writing children’s books and curriculum for Sunday schools. Often after supper she gathered me and my sister into the living room where she read her stories to us. If we liked them, she sent them off to the publisher.

I came on the scene when Dad was finishing seminary in New York. He was serving a church in Rochester, New York, when I was in grammar school. Next it was on to Amarillo, Texas, for junior high and high school. In Texas I adopted cowboy hats and boots yet remained a ‘damn Yankee’ to my peers. From Texas I journeyed to Ohio and college. I wore my hat and boots and was immediately tagged, ‘Tex.’

Dale, I am getting ahead of myself and would like to back up a bit to a couple more childhood stories. Mom and Dad were from different worlds and had different notions about money. They were in that first generation of two-income families and Mom actually made more money that Dad. I think their solution was ingenious. They made a list marked:  male and female. Dad paid for the male side of the list and Mom took care of the female part of the ledger. Problem solved.

Again, we are in my childhood. I had a dog—not an ordinary dog, but a giant St. Bernard named Dagwood. It was a family vacation and all of us including Dagwood were enjoying the wilderness. Our rented cabin was on a pristine lake and we had access to a row boat, so Dagwood was locked up in the cabin and Dad was rowing us across the lake. Suddenly this huge animal came splashing across the water. Dagwood had crashed through the screen door and true to his breeding had swam out determined to rescue us. Imagine if you can the mayhem that ensued as we tried to pull Dagwood into the boat without capsizing!

In 1965 I was in Selma, Alabama, the day after Bloody Sunday. It was the scariest time of my life. The horrors of the attempted crossing of the Edmund Pettus Bridge had enflamed the nation. About twenty of us flew out of the Bay area on Delta Airlines. We noticed that we were not being served and when we inquired the answer was, ‘We don’t serve n_ _ _ _r lovers.’  And that was the beginning. We were in Selma to assist with voter registration. We were housed with Black families where I learned I did not like collard greens and loved fried chicken. The orientation was intense. We were instructed to always carry two damp handkerchiefs to counter the effects of tear gas. Our day began early knocking on doors and registering voters. After dinner we went to chapel and then it was into the streets to march with Martin Luther King, Jr. Our purpose was to get arrested. School buses were parked along the streets and the police and dogs were there to shove us onto the buses. We were taken to the high school gym, locked up, and spent the night. We were released early the next morning and we did it all over again for two weeks. The story ends when I returned to my clergy position in California to find I had been fired.”

Gayle and I left this home thirsting for more stories about this remarkable couple and their adventures.   

•••

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.

Written by Dale Buchanan

“Our stories and rituals make us who we are.  If you want to get to know someone, listen to their stories.  If you want to understand people, observe their rituals and the games they play.”
—Andrew Fiala

This quote appeared in Dr. Fiala’s regular Sunday morning Fresno Bee column. It captured my imagination and when Gayle and I sat down with Aurora on the same Sunday afternoon, these words were fresh on my mind. They served as a template for the interview. Aurora picked up my lead and the following is my interpretation of this young woman’s story.

“I guess I should begin my story at the beginning. I was born at Clovis Community Hospital. Mom and dad bought a two-bedroom brick home in the Palm and Shields neighborhood. Escrow closed and we moved in when I was four months old. I lived there until I was twenty-one.

Palm and Shields was not a high-rent district. I guess it was lower middle class, but my memories are sweet and precious. It was a lovely neighborhood with a healthy mix of working-class families and retired folks who had raised their children there. The best part for me was the children. Lots of children.

Halloween was, in my opinion, the very best holiday. Back then it was all about the children. Sundown brought out the kids—droves of us—toddlers to teenagers clogged the streets in search of the best treats and in short order our bags were overflowing with sweet treasures. It was a festive occasion. Streetlights and porch lights were on up and down every street. The October moon illuminated our way along the grass-lined sidewalks of that friendly, pleasant neighborhood—children laughing at the size of their bounty and grownups smiling as they handed out treats.

It was my parents’ ambition for my older sister and me to have as blissful a childhood as possible.  They accomplished this with a sweet combination of gentle structure and tender love. From my mother came an abundance of one-on-one time. One example that stands out in my mind concerns my mom and pillow forts. She would take me to the public library where we checked out a stack of books.  Mom and I then built a fort from pillows arranged on the floor. In went mom, me, and the books followed by the last pillow which sealed us into that safe and delightful space where my goddess mother sparked my imagination with a passion for reading still burning today. Lest you think Mother and I spent all our time in a pillow fort, be aware that this precious woman also found time to teach me to cook and clean. She instilled in me a sense of responsibility and a work ethic that continues to influence my daily life.

The second memory that illustrates the solid structure and security of my home life concerns Dad. Dad owns his own business. Purchased in 2005, he sells mowers, edgers, equipment parts, and specializes in repairs. Located on Clovis and Shields, the store is called Mowers Edge. (I had to slip in this little plug.) Dad is a third generation Fresnan and is in many ways macho. There is a strong foundation of humor and teasing woven with love into a strong father-daughter relationship. He loves to give me a bad time about being a feminist—which is true! My response to this is always, ‘Dad, you made me this way! Teaching me from day one that there is nothing a girl can’t do. You took me fishing, taught me how to bait my own line, and even clean the fish myself. You encouraged me to play baseball and basketball. In short, Daddy, you made me believe in myself, so if these things make a feminist, I am one and you are most certainly responsible.’ 😊

Lastly, I recall a fishing trip with my parents and grandparents. I was given a little Snoopy fishing pole and caught the only fish of the day. It was hooked by one of its whiskers! I was seven years old and that story is still a part of family lore and a reminder to me of the joy of my childhood.

My education includes Daley Elementary, Hamilton Middle School, Bullard High School, and Fresno City College. I plan to enroll soon at Fresno State and become a high school English teacher.

My story would not be complete without an account of my pursuit and eventual capture of Patrick Lopez. I met Patrick at Bullard. He was seventeen—the best-looking boy I had ever seen. I was fifteen and instantly in love. I followed him across the campus accidentally running into him in the hall, by his locker, and in the library. In November 2016 we were married in the Big Red Church.

I was somewhat jaded about church. Patrick convinced me to try the Big Red Church. I fell in love with the community. Growing up my focus was only on family. This church has provided me with a wide community that adds a new dimension to my life.”

Breaking news: We are excited and privileged to announce that Aurora and Patrick are expecting their first child in July.  

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.

From Dale Buchanan

“Dale, I have Parkinson’s disease. It’s no big deal!  I am not disabled, I am not a victim, I am not handicapped. I just have Parkinson’s. I have what is called the slow-acting kind which means that I will probably die of old age before Parkinson’s kills me. I am just getting old faster than I anticipated.”

I have sat in the row in front of Winston at the Big Red Church for almost three years. We greet with a “good morning” before the service begins. We do the Peace of Christ thing every Sunday. I recognize him as a dapper, well-dressed gentleman with a hat, tie, and suit which is basically all I knew about this week’s “person from the pews.”  I did recognize that he had Parkinson’s and thought it might be an elephant in the room in our interview. The above paragraph eliminated my concern about elephants.

“Dale, I was born in Placerville, California where my dad was running a CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) logging camp. It was not long before the beginning of World War II. Dad joined the military and I became a military brat. We moved on the average of once every three years: Washington D.C., Japan, San Francisco, Germany, Sunnyvale and more that run together in my memory. We arrived in Japan during the occupation. I was used to being in places where people lived in houses. I was profoundly affected by the sight of starving people living in the streets.

I was six or seven years old when we reached Washington, D.C. One wonderful morning it snowed. Our house was on a hill and the road was closed. My mother told how I ate my breakfast, grabbed my sled, rushed to the top of the hill and continued up and down the hill all day long. I came in for dinner only with darkness. I took a few bites of food and fell asleep with my face falling in my plate.

In Germany we had access to a military ship on stand-by basis and were able to travel for free and see much of Europe. That was truly exciting and an educational time for an Army brat.

I guess the most memorable time for me, as well as the first time we stayed anywhere long enough for me to feel like I actually belonged, was San Francisco. It was there that my sense of family and security first took root. I remember stockings stuffed with oranges and candy for Christmas. Military pay was not high then but looking back I realize that if I wanted something, I got it. Christmas morning my two sisters and I were not allowed downstairs until mom and dad had coffee. After what seemed like an eternity they called and we stormed down the stairs to the glories of Christmas.

You know, Dale, it seems passing strange that you can grow up in a home so filled with love that you do not realize how short you were on stuff. My mother was always there for me, and I miss my dad. I guess as I reflect on the matter, I was never short on the essentials in the loving home my parents provided.

In San Francisco we lived on a dead-end street that backed up to the Presidio. My friend Bill and I, with other boys, rode our bikes there and played at knocking each other over. Boys do stupid things, but if you survive those stupid things they provide wonderful memories.

I see you glancing at your watch, but I would like to tell you about Nancy. I must admit that marriage and love were not real successful endeavors until I met Nancy. I had been married and divorced three times when we met. Nancy died from leukemia in 2001. She was and still is the love of my life!  

When I met Nancy, I was studying to get a Bachelor of Science degree in nursing and working part time at the hospital where Nancy was an occupational therapist. Work and education demands separated us for almost three years. Then on a new job and at a new hospital, I was walking down a corridor and heard her voice. I walked in the room where she was. She had time and we went for a cup of coffee. That was my undoing!  I can truly say I fell in love for the first time that day. During our years of marriage, we sat down together everyday after work with a cup of coffee and talked about serious things and laughed about silly things.

Nancy was boss. Once in a fit of anger I started to go and bang on my neighbor’s door. She said, “Winston, come back.”  I kept going. She said, “Winston Lewis Field, come back.” I came back. It was then I started listening to her. She taught me to not try to solve her problems—in other words to give her space. She taught me to be a man not just a tall child.

Dale, Nancy was and still is my rock. I must, before I’m through, mention my cat Genevieve who died at age 18 with all her teeth. She helped me with all my grief when Nancy passed.

There have been a lot of folks in my life. Some have hurt me, but most have been a blessing and helped as I made my way. I can look back today and say it has been a hell of a trip.”

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 Big Red pews this morning is Mr. Peter Wall. Peter is a practicing attorney with the Fresno County Counsel’s Office and an active member of our congregation. Just before Thanksgiving, Peter agreed to sit down with me for an interview. What with the holidays, the meeting got put on the back burner until last night when Gayle and I met Peter at a local Starbucks.

We chit chatted for a few minutes before I described the procedure and we got busy. I had eight questions that I thought might give me a snapshot understanding of this man I really did not know very well. I am now sitting at my desk with eleven pages of Gayle’s notes.

Perhaps because of his training and profession, Peter answered the questions I asked with precision and clarity. Gayle’s notes were, as always, spot on. Much of the time Peter talked and Gayle transcribed. My job this morning is to relate to you a Reader’s Digest version of Peter’s story. As always in a condensed story, many of the details must be shortened or even left for your imagination.

“I was born in Madera, California, and grew up there with the exception of one school year when we lived in Antioch. I remember coming back to Madera and my first day in second grade. Same school, same kids I had left in kindergarten. A happy day.

I have two favorite mother memories that go back to kindergarten. The school was on the same block as our house, so very close, but my mother walked me to school every morning and then came for me after class but not all the way. She was down the street watching and allowing me to spread my wings. I knew she was watching and I was never afraid.

By the time I started kindergarten, I had two preschool brothers who must have kept mother extremely busy. I remember coming home one day and being greeted by a delicious smell coming from the kitchen. There waiting for me was a big bowl of canned spaghettios with a hot dog cut up in it. Why do I remember this?  Maybe because it was prepared just for me. I guess the long and short of it is that it made me feel special.

My dad was a cabinetmaker and up early. From my bedroom I could hear him eating his breakfast and getting ready for work. Afraid he would send me back to bed, I never dared go to the kitchen while he was getting ready. But the moment he went out the door, I would spring from my bed, fly down the hall to the living room and climb up on the couch and there, out the large window I would see dad getting into his car. He always paused, just a second, before entering the car and with a smile glanced at me. Dad loved hand signals. On those wonderful mornings from the front door of the car with my face glued to the window, I would get the sign for “I love you” and a “thumbs up.”  With that affectionate wave dad drove away to the mysterious world of work.

Growing up we three brothers took turns ganging up on each other and doing “stupid stuff.”  Once as eldest brother I was left in charge of the two younger ones. In roughhousing Adam ended up on his tummy and claimed he couldn’t move his legs. I was scared. Today he still laughs about tricking me. Three rowdy boys made life great fun during our growing up years.

Raised in a loving home and secure in my Christian faith, I more or less accepted the path of least resistance and was on my way to seminary and the ministry in the Mennonite Brethren Church. Somewhere along the way I had to face the reality that I really could not believe much of what I had accepted as the truth. I found myself writing in my journal ‘I am done with believing in God.’

Almost by accident I found the law. In one of my many past part-time jobs I worked in a book store. A girl came in looking for books to prepare for the LSAT (Law School Admission Test). She told me about San Joaquin College of Law in Clovis. I enrolled, graduated first in my class, and met Mary in our second year when we were study partners. At one point we were wading through an extremely boring class on “Wills and Trusts.”  So bowing out early, I asked Mary to go with me for a drink. She agreed. I had two gin martinis and she had two “pink things.” It was there in the parking lot of the Old Claim Jumpers that we shared our first kiss. And the rest is history.

Dale, you asked me about my passion. I want to know things and at the same time I am skeptical of what it means to know things. It is this paradox that is my passion.”

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 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.