One Nation Blah Blah Blah

Dad was such a geologist through and through. He seemed to think that whatever wasn't solid as rock was pure mythology. For us as kids, that meant lots of Rocks, but no Santa Claus, no Tooth Fairy, no Easter Bunny, and no God.

When I look back on a childhood of not believing in Santa Claus, it doesn't seem sad or deprived. We just knew that our parents got us gifts, but some kids believed Santa was real, and so we never tried to blow the secret for any of them. It just wasn't a big deal. At least that's how I remember it.

The question of believing in God was almost, but not quite, as simple. There were just so many references to God, all the time, from all directions. I distinctly remember seeking confirmation from Dad. And I was ready to join in, in solidarity. I just had to make sure. "Dad, we don't believe in God, right?" And he said, "Well, I don't believe in God. I don't know if you believe in God. You have to figure that out for yourself." I think I was five.

In the first grade, it dawned on me that I should not be required to say "under God" during the Pledge of Allegiance because we didn't believe in God. I brought it up with Dad and he seemed to recognize my dilemma. So I asked him to come and tell Miss Biggler that I was excused from that part of the pledge. But he said, "You can tell her yourself." ...!!!... That helped me realize that my civil liberties weren't really being trampled on so much. I had nowhere near the gumption to tell her!! From then on, I just remained quiet during those two words of the Pledge.

In the beginning

I don't remember a time when I wasn't aware of religion. Similar to major league sporting events, I knew religion was a big deal in the world but it was mostly just a cultural reference in our home. Except for the interactions with Dad's family, which were all about God. The trappings of God were rules and restrictions, fear and judgment; there wasn't much there to lure me away from the intellect based foundation that our parents gave us. By that perspective, a cautious approach could minimize its influence to nuisance status.

Our vacation trips to Alabama were a great cultural adventure. Despite Dad's personal rejection of the church, he didn't stop us from experiencing it; he just kept a close eye against heavy promotion. He was in favor of exposure, but had no tolerance for proseletyzing. And so I always felt free to visit and examine, with instructions to be respectful, but encouraged to think for myself.

Other than the burden of dressing up (still don't like that) attending church in Alabama was on balance quite fun. It only happened a couple times a year and it seemed to mean a lot to the grandparents. It was a good way to spend time with them, whom we didn't see much, and because of Dad's well-known position on the matter of church, everyone kept a pretty safe distance around the topic of conversion or baptism. So it was a chance to visit a somewhat foreign culture and get a lot of mostly positive, if inquisitive, attention ("y'all must be Farrell's daughters!").

Maybe the church visits were made to seem fun in comparison to the 3 or 4 days of driving that got us there. Long days in the car with no air conditioning, cheap motels, cheaper food, and endless negotiations for back seat territory. These were the days of AM radio and not much was offered through the vast rural areas along the way. The best way to pass the time was with singing and we knew that we sounded exactly like the Julie Andrews, or maybe the Partridge family, or the Jackson Five. How lucky for our parents.

And so it is not surprising that we could be persuaded to attend Granddaddy's Bethany Baptist Church and sing a song for the congregation. Here's a favorite:


"I was sinking deep in sin, far from the peaceful shore.
Very deeply stained within, sinking to rise no more.
But the master of the sea heard my despairing cry.
From the waters lifted me, now safe am I.

Love lifted me.
Love lifted me.
When nothing else would help,
Love lifted me."

Imagine that. "Deeply stained within." I think we were around 6 or 7 years old.

Did you ever feel like you were being raised in a moving car? I mean, we had a nice ranch house as our official address, but we seemed to always be going somewhere. From Phoenix to Flagstaff every weekend to work on the cabin; from Phoenix to Alabama on vacations to visit relatives; from North Carolina to Virginia to visit each other when we got older. I remember a few years before Dad died, Jim and I drove to Charlottesville from Pittsburgh. It took about 6-7 hours. As soon as we got there, Dad has us in the car again, to go fossil hunting. Motion sickness was not an option.

I was 10, so you and Judith were 8. I know that because I have mine! And it has my partially-filled out family tree. I only read and re-read about 3 parts. I liked Genesis, because it was the beginning. I liked the "begats" part. I also liked the birth of Jesus parts which I became acquainted with through Linus on Charlie Brown's Christmas. That scene always makes me cry.

Alisa recently mentioned those Bibles that Grandma and Grandpa gave us one Christmas when we were kids. Our names were printed on the front in gold, and all Jesus's words were in red. How old were we? 8 and 10, something like that? I wish I still had mine. It was an odd little forbidden fruit as I saw it in those days. I knew that Dad didn't appreciate their "meddling" by giving us those Bibles. I thought that if I had disdain for it as well (not that I understood disdain really) that would earn me some approval from Dad. But I was curious about the Bible too, and occasionally tempted to read it. That usually lasted a couple verses.