I know I promised a memory of pie socials (politically correct for "pie suppers"), but I think it best to set the stage a bit. We will return to pie suppers after Christmas and we have had our pie. The Matheny Chapel Church was the social center for our community. It was the only place outside school where youngsters could meet with others of their own age. Girls and boys from the top of Jesse Mountain and Glen Fork to Turkey Dip, and from the mouth of Coon Branch to lower Turkey Creek and Brenton came to the church on the pretense that they were seeking religion, while, in truth most of them were seeking companionship from the opposite sex. A young man was willing to withstand the boredom and could feign attention to a sermon that lasted half an afternoon if he was to be rewarded later by walking home with the girl of his choice, even if it was under the watchful eye of her parents, which was a given in most rural communities. People joined a particular church more as a matter of convenience than because of their beliefs. Other than the way they called their pastors, the Matheny Methodist Church did not differ much from other evangelical churches of the time. They taught the same plan of salvation and practiced immersion as the means of baptism. There were no churches other than the Methodist church at Matheny in the late thirties and forties, so it was natural that residents of the community would choose to affiliate with the church closest to them. The Matheny church was very small by today's standards. It was a typical rural church house with wooden frame construction and weather- boarding on the outside. It initially sat upon posts about 18 inches high, but in its later years strong winds dislodged it from its perch. The one door to the church was on the end facing State Route 10, only a few steps away. We sat on straight-backed wooden pews. All Sunday School classes met in the single room that was the church house, and afterward the preaching service was held in the same place. Our church had a steeple and a bell that signaled the community when services were about to begin. The people in charge of church services changed over the years that I attended Matheny Chapel, but not much. I don’t know the official names of the church offices, but Uncle Lon Scott always seemed to be in charge. During my teenage years, Chess Stewart was Sunday School superintendent and his wife Louetta was the organist. Tom Duty was song leader. Homer Stewart, who was only slightly older than his charges, was one of those who taught our teenage Sunday School class. I must say I could have enjoyed Sunday School if I worked at it a little bit. Perhaps I should recuse myself from writing about the church services. I am not sure I can be objective. I attended mainly because it was expected of me. I didn’t want to disappoint my Aunt Ruth. Even the girls at church were not as interesting as playing ball or fishing. As a teenager, I was the classic example of one stricken with severe attention deficient disorder. I am not talking about the gospel; the gospel was not the problem. It was the mindless way it was so often served up. It was according to formula. I sat there on those hard wooden pews, my limbs grew numb, my butt hurt, my thinking slowed and only a sharp pencil placed under my chin kept me from fading away completely and becoming a gospel zombie. I longed to be fishing or playing baseball. But if I was going to be put to sleep in church, I preferred that it happen during the music. The songs sounded like funeral dirges sung by a herd of cows that were ,themselves, only half awake. We needed some pep; some rhythm. Both Tom and Louetta (God rest their souls) would be kicked out of the “club” today for the way they strung out those old hymns. Those were the days when they literally passed the hat to “collect the offering.” After the donations were counted, Uncle Lon would rise and thank the church for the amount given. If Aunt Ruth was not at church and I was supposed to be, she always quizzed me on the amount of the offering as a means of checking up on me. I can’t say that I never lied to my Aunt Ruth, but if I did, it was not a common occurrence. STAN

I love your stories. Where is Matheny is relation to Sun Hill or Baileysville? That is the usual area of my Shannon's. STANLEY BROWNING <[email protected]> wrote: I know I promised a memory of pie socials (politically correct for "pie suppers"), but I think it best to set the stage a bit. We will return to pie suppers after Christmas and we have had our pie. The Matheny Chapel Church was the social center for our community. It was the only place outside school where youngsters could meet with others of their own age. Girls and boys from the top of Jesse Mountain and Glen Fork to Turkey Dip, and from the mouth of Coon Branch to lower Turkey Creek and Brenton came to the church on the pretense that they were seeking religion, while, in truth most of them were seeking companionship from the opposite sex. A young man was willing to withstand the boredom and could feign attention to a sermon that lasted half an afternoon if he was to be rewarded later by walking home with the girl of his choice, even if it was under the watchful eye of her parents, which was a given in most rural communities. People joined a particular church more as a matter of convenience than because of their beliefs. Other than the way they called their pastors, the Matheny Methodist Church did not differ much from other evangelical churches of the time. They taught the same plan of salvation and practiced immersion as the means of baptism. There were no churches other than the Methodist church at Matheny in the late thirties and forties, so it was natural that residents of the community would choose to affiliate with the church closest to them. The Matheny church was very small by today's standards. It was a typical rural church house with wooden frame construction and weather- boarding on the outside. It initially sat upon posts about 18 inches high, but in its later years strong winds dislodged it from its perch. The one door to the church was on the end facing State Route 10, only a few steps away. We sat on straight-backed wooden pews. All Sunday School classes met in the single room that was the church house, and afterward the preaching service was held in the same place. Our church had a steeple and a bell that signaled the community when services were about to begin. The people in charge of church services changed over the years that I attended Matheny Chapel, but not much. I don’t know the official names of the church offices, but Uncle Lon Scott always seemed to be in charge. During my teenage years, Chess Stewart was Sunday School superintendent and his wife Louetta was the organist. Tom Duty was song leader. Homer Stewart, who was only slightly older than his charges, was one of those who taught our teenage Sunday School class. I must say I could have enjoyed Sunday School if I worked at it a little bit. Perhaps I should recuse myself from writing about the church services. I am not sure I can be objective. I attended mainly because it was expected of me. I didn’t want to disappoint my Aunt Ruth. Even the girls at church were not as interesting as playing ball or fishing. As a teenager, I was the classic example of one stricken with severe attention deficient disorder. I am not talking about the gospel; the gospel was not the problem. It was the mindless way it was so often served up. It was according to formula. I sat there on those hard wooden pews, my limbs grew numb, my butt hurt, my thinking slowed and only a sharp pencil placed under my chin kept me from fading away completely and becoming a gospel zombie. I longed to be fishing or playing baseball. But if I was going to be put to sleep in church, I preferred that it happen during the music. The songs sounded like funeral dirges sung by a herd of cows that were ,themselves, only half awake. We needed some pep; some rhythm. Both Tom and Louetta (God rest their souls) would be kicked out of the “club” today for the way they strung out those old hymns. Those were the days when they literally passed the hat to “collect the offering.” After the donations were counted, Uncle Lon would rise and thank the church for the amount given. If Aunt Ruth was not at church and I was supposed to be, she always quizzed me on the amount of the offering as a means of checking up on me. I can’t say that I never lied to my Aunt Ruth, but if I did, it was not a common occurrence. STAN ------------------------------- To unsubscribe from the list, please send an email to [email protected] with the word 'unsubscribe' without the quotes in the subject and the body of the message --------------------------------- Never miss a thing. Make Yahoo your homepage.