"For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." --- John 3:16
The first Bible verse I committed to memory in Sunday School at First Baptist Church of Franklinton. All these years, it was all I needed to know.
While it has been sometime since I've been up on my soapbox, here I go again. In current commentary, a certain phrase has become commonplace, "whatever higher power you believe in." This is troubling. Lacking sufficient space to rail on, I won't address atheism or agnosticism. But I feel compelled to comment on the poppycock I just mentioned, probably part of the inclusion (I think that's what they call it) movement. As all of us here in Washington Parish know, first and foremost, we need to know God. We believe in Him. Most of us came to know Him in our youth - at home, Church, and Sunday School.
Transitioning to the more mundane, something else we learned as kids was our phone number. "You need to know our number," declared my parents. We had just one phone number, four digits back in that day. No cell numbers, no extra lines, no area code needed. 3723. That was it, our home number. We dialed a 9 in front. While it was officially 839-3723, the 839 was superfluous at the time. 9-3723.
We weren't on a party line like my Ga-ga was. And we didn't go through an operator for local calls, like they did back in the day. "Operator, please."
Having penned a column on the arrival of the telephone in Franklinton back in November of 2016, I noted several of the early operators --- Ada Pierce, Mrs. L. T. (Tebo) Burkhalter, Lela Welch, Mrs. Ansil Foil, Mrs. Joe O. (Mary Robinson) Poole, Mrs. A. E. Laird, Mrs. Davis, and Sadie Mae Foil. I'm sure there were others. But suffice to say, growing up in Franklinton, I knew my number.
And my friends' numbers. Still in possession of my bright yellow phone book, a gift from my mother when I turned six, I took a cursory look at my early printing which I added to over time.
9-2722 (Miss Pauline Crain Bankston). My parents always said, if anything happens, call the Crains --- they were our neighbors down on the Enon Road. Either James and Pauline Crain Bankston or Robert and Linda Crain or better yet, both.
And next up were my young friends. 9-4247 (Robin Varnado). Another neighbor, daughter of Don and Beverly Varnado. 9-4874 (Gina Belcher). Daughter of John and Alean Belcher. 9-2828 (Beth Bickham). Daughter of Bruce and Elizabeth Bickham. 9-2295 (Patri Frazier). Daughter of Percy Mac and Frances Frazier. 9-4087 (Rachel Holmes). Daughter of Brenda Holmes and Richard Holmes. 9-5181 (Caryn Crain). My cousin, daughter of Michael and Nealyne Crain. 9-3645 (Angela Johnson). Daughter of Andy and Annette Johnson. 9-5246 (Marilyn and Brooke McMillan) Daughters of Dr. Aubrey and Barbara McMillan. 9-3232 (Kelli Moore). Daughter of Duke and Marilyn Moore. 9-3596 (Vanda Upton). Daughter of Ronnie and Nan Simmons. 9-3279 (Rebecca Seal). Daughter of J. Y. and Terry Seal.
For the record, once in school I gained a posse of friends --- my classmates and friends - who were not listed in that original phone book: Marsha Carter, Stephanie Miller, Sarah Watts, Becky Moseley, Darleen Warren, Marcia Case, Rebekka Stafford, Marianna Burris, Theresa Byrd, Ellen Givens, Teresa Ball, and April Stogner among others.
These days, friends' numbers are in Contacts. With the advent of cell phones, there is no longer a need for a phone book or even the Rolodex that once housed numbers, plus addresses, on my desk at work. Still, I treasure my old-time address book, which is in tatters. I purchased two of them back in Lafayette where we lived in the late 1980s, gifting one to my sister-in-law and keeping one for myself. A good half of the folks within are lamentably no longer here. So, once again it's my present-day phone on which I largely rely for numbers and addresses that I need to know.
It also gives me up-to-date weather, something else we need to know in the autumn of life. I finally grasp why my father's letters to my mother were laden with weather reports. A liaison pilot in World War II, Daddy wrote to Momma from France on August 6, 1944, "I can certainly appreciate beautiful weather. Today is ideal. We have had several days of warm sunshine with a cool breeze blowing through the apple orchards. I am really enjoying it after spending those miserable months in Ireland."
Digressing, his message has taken on new, discouraging meaning, for me. My late father is funding a journey to Ireland (where he underwent six months of intense training with the 28th Field Artillery Battalion in early 1944) and Scotland for me, and my better half. The greatest son-in-law on God's green earth, Daddy called Rodney.
But back to the beginning and Daddy's missives, God was with our soldiers on the warfront. They believed in and relied on Him. On August 22, 1944, thirteen days after losing his best friend Charlie Gibb, a fellow liaison pilot shot down not far from Mont Saint-Michel, Daddy penned another missive to my mother from France, "Shortly after I finished your letter yesterday afternoon I was called on a mission….Paul and I were bracketed with flak, but managed by the help of God to get out of it. I was absolutely scared when I landed. Don't believe any rumors you may hear that the Boches are too weak to establish any resistance. It is true they're weakening, but far from being defeated. They're highly schooled in warfare and use ingenuity to substitute for lack of material. However, they're fighting a hopeless war 'cause later we will gloriously triumph."
And it came to pass - victory for the Allies - in less than a year's time in Europe - eighty years ago. Without any cellular devices, my dad knew all that he needed to know, in war and peacetime. His steadfast faith in God and country saw him through.
