Milton Remembers

My earliest business adventure occurred when I was about eight.  It all began with a heavenly vision of the most beautiful bicycle anyone would ever want.  It was in the window of a drug store a few blocks from our home.  It featured balloon tires, chrome fenders, and a light up front. It was the most gorgeous bike I had ever seen, and it was to be given free to the boy or girl who could sell the most Pepsident toothpaste, door to door, in one month.

I signed on immediately.  At the appointed time and place all the kids who wished to participate appeared at the drug store to pick up our toothpaste, and listened to a presentation made by the druggist – how it gets your teeth sparkling clean, and freshens your breath, etc., and how it was so pure you could actually eat it if you chose to do so.  This last part, about being pure, was of great interest to me.  I thought that was a real selling point, and since this was the only time I had heard of a toothpaste which could be eaten without harm it surely must be the only brand that could make such a claim.

We had to pay for our stock immediately.  I took two dozen and went home to get my wagon.  I was going to pull it from house to house, sell my entire stock, and hurry back to the store for more.  I was so excited about the possibilities that when Betty heard of it, she wanted to ride along in the wagon and keep guard over the toothpaste while I went to the door with my speech and a couple of tubes.

I was so caught up in my work that I paid no particular attention to Betty for the first several stops, then I noticed that she had been opening the tubes and eating the first bite or two out of each!  I was angry at her, but her flawless defense was that I had told her it was so pure she could eat it.  She didn’t know what “pure” tasted like, and was doing her own research on the matter.

I decided to cut my losses, and learned there are risks to salesmanship.

I never learned to play the piano, except the chords to The Old-Time Religion.  I have no talent for it, but do enjoy hearing someone else play.  When I was in the first grade Mother thought I should be given the opportunity to learn, and she had found someone willing to come to our house to give lessons.  I was very dubious about the outcome, but was willing to give it a try.  Patiently, the teacher pointed out middle-C, and we worked through the FACE and EVERY GOOD BOY DOES FINE.  The next lesson was to come a week later, but I was very careful to be somewhere out of sight and beyond hearing range until I knew she was gone.

A few years later there was a flickering thought of a second try, this time with Mom as the teacher.  We got past two or maybe three lessons in which I mastered the FACE and EVERY GOOD BOY DOES FINE thing, and was able to locate middle-C quickly.  But when I was confronted with the first simple tune in Book One it all seemed too complicated, so, again I dropped out.

In the 7^th grade Mom cut me a deal: In return for feeding, watering, and milking four cows each morning and evening, and cleaning the barn, I could locate a walking route and deliver milk to these places early each morning.  At the end of the week I could collect what was due, and keep the money to pay for my school supplies, books, clothes AND Betty’s piano lessons.  I could keep whatever was left for personal use.  (Precious little was left!)  This went on for quite awhile, and I never let Betty forget that she should play for me whenever I was around, as I had paid for her music lessons.

* * * * * * * * * *

As a young boy, the weekly worship service had few attractions for me.  It was an adult affair, designed for adults and with few concessions made to the children.  On rare occasions a visiting “Christian artist” would give a Chalk Talk resulting in a 3 or 4 color portrayal of a shepherd reaching down into a crevice to pull up a lost sheep he had found, or of Jesus dying on the cross, His blood dripping down on weeping sinners, cleansing them of sin.

It was not very good art, and aimed as much to adults as to children, but it was a welcome variation from the usual.  With the possible exception of a moment such as this, church was an adult service associated with adult words, adult songs, adult prayers, adult offerings, adult announcements, and was a long time between packing the 11 members of our family into the Chevy that would carry us all to the church and the return trip.

There were the “Opening Exercises” consisting of adult words and semi-adult songs and Bible reading - then the 45 minute break for Sunday School class when each of us got to paste a gold star on a picture of the church, or a pair of animals on the ramp leading to Noah’s Ark.  What came next was of uneven quality, depending upon the talents and interests of the teacher in charge.

Then came the main event.  Worship at 11.  I had to invent ways to get through the hour.  One favorite passive method was to lie down on my father’s lap and go to sleep.  When this was not possible, I found several other entertainments.  For example: I noted that when the preacher preached, his lips parted from the center out.  That is, the skin of his lips would keep them together except at the center of the mouth, then spread from east to west (or north to south) until the whole word had been spoken, and then stop and close again.  It was fascinating to watch his lips pull apart in response to the need for more room to pronounce a particular word.  I wondered if the speaker was ever conscious of the little drama of the lips.

Of, if the flowers on the table were close enough to see clearly, I would pass some time counting the petals, or painting them in my head.  Sometimes Dad would give me a piece of paper and a pencil, and I would spend at least half the time drawing.  Inevitably the service ended and we were free to go home – that is, most were free to go.  We always had to wait an additional 30 minutes or so while Dad visited and took care of church business.

At last we were back home for quick removal of Sunday clothing and redressing, wearing as little as possible.  One Sunday morning I dared to do the unthinkable – I would skip Sunday School and church.  I made this decision at the last moment, after putting on my complete Sunday outfit – clean white shirt, tie, suit, shoes and all.  Waiting for a moment when no one was looking I flung my body under the bed and up against the wall as far as it would go, and lay very quietly and waited.  My hope was that if anybody noted I was missing they would have to stop looking for me soon, or be late to church.

But I was missed, of course, and any of us would have been.  And the search was on.  Ten people were dispatched to every room in the house, and then some went to search the garage.  My name was being called out from every corner.  “Milton,” “Milton.”  I made no answer.

Finally the moment arrived when the rest of the family would simply have to go on without me – or else not!  The “or else not” is what worried me.  In this critical “moment of truth” my nerve failed me and I caved.  I crawled out from under the bed, the entire family gathering to see the new criminal who, too embarrassed to speak, busied himself with wiping away the “dust-bunnies” from his shirt and trousers and, without a word from, or to my father and mother, we all climbed into the car and left for church.

I have not, to this day, spoken of this unspeakable sin to my father or mother.

* * * * * * * * * *

My oldest sister, Mary, was always a generous person.  When I was in grade school (about the sixth grade, I think), she decided to take her students on an all-day field trip to visit the factories and mines of Hutchinson, Kansas.  I don’t know what the arrangements regarding expenses were, but she was thoughtful enough and generous enough to include me at no cost.

We began at 8:00 A.M. and finished around 5:00 P.M., with a lunch break at noon.  We visited a coal mine and a salt mine, and several manufacturing businesses.  During the lunch break I enjoyed my first Coney Island sandwich.

That was just one example of her generosity.  The event which made the greatest impression on me happened the year Mary brought us Christmas.  It was during the Depression.  Dad took work wherever he could find it, but it was not enough to pay all the bills.  December was upon us, and like children everywhere, Christmas would not seem like Christmas without a gift exchange.  But none of us had any money, and not even material to make something that anyone would find useful.  We could only look forward to the church school pageant, with its anticipated treat.  Each of us would receive a paper bag containing an apple or orange, a popcorn ball, a stick of chewing gum, a chocolate drop, and several penny candies.  This was a very big deal in those days.

Two or three days before Christmas a beautiful Christmas tree appeared in our living room.  We all decorated it with strands of popcorn and paper chains, and other trinkets.  All that was missing were  gifts.  We typically celebrated the gift exchange on Christmas Eve, right after supper.  Shortly before that, on this particular day, all of us except Mom and Dad and Mary were banished from the room where mysterious things were going on.  Then we were admitted into the room.  What a lovely picture.  And there were gifts everyplace.  Mary had evidently saved her money for a long time – for she had provided gifts for everyone, and not just token gifts, but gifts that made one’s heart skip a beat.  (I got a used bicycle and a football.)  I think Dad was given a gold watch.  Mom and each of the girls got something that pleased them, I’m sure.  The bicycle was my pride and joy for some time to come.  All the gifts of that day are long gone now – used up, worn out, outgrown, but I will always remember the day that Mary brought Christmas.

* * * * * * * * * *

Being the only boy in a brood of nine children is a bit unusual, and often prompts a new acquaintance to say, “I’ll bet you were spoiled.”  Naturally I deny this, claiming just the opposite.  Because I was the sixth born, it became the duty of my older sisters to keep me out of trouble and to look after me.  They achieved this by simply ignoring me.  Consequently, I got into trouble often, and frequently needed a guiding hand.

For example: I cannot remember a time when I was not fascinated by cars, and enjoyed sitting in the driver’s seat of Dad’s car and imagined myself driving it.  I would steer and work the pedals as best I could – all my moves would be random, I had no idea what I was doing.

One Sunday afternoon I discovered that if I pressed the started button while the gear shift was in a particular position, the car would actually move a little – backward!  And if I pressed the button again and again in rapid order, the car would continue to jerk along in reverse.  Oh joy!  Suddenly I felt myself being lifted from the car, with the guiding hand coming from my father.

I can’t blame my sisters for everything that went wrong in my childhood, and must admit that some of their refusal to help me was for my own good.  For example: there was my need for a drink of water on a hot afternoon.  Three sisters were lounging about the house, each of them taller than I, and each of them quite capable of reaching into the cupboard for a glass and then to the sink for the water.  But, with pleasure, they refused to respond to my call.  “It’s for your own good,” they said.  Then a little assurance: “You can do it.”  Finally, I saw that I must get the water myself, or perish.  So, like a little bird being pushed from the nest, I was being pushed into the task of getting my own water to drink.  I pulled a chair over to the sink, climbed up on the counter, stretched myself to reach into the cupboard for a cup, filled it with water, and drank the wonderful victory.

The last occasion for this sort of physical help came one Sunday morning as we were getting dressed for church.  I was hung up on endless shirt buttons and getting nowhere, until Ruth came to my rescue and with marvelously talented fingers gave a magic twist to each button, and the job was done.  She encouraged me to believe that soon I could do that for myself – and I did.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Did I say the last occasion for this kind of assistance came on the Sunday morning when Ruth came to my rescue?  Wrong!  I’m at the other end of life’s span now, and once again I stand in need of a helping hand to find the sleeve for coat or shirt, to pull my collar down, to get up from a chair that’s too low, to button my shirt sleeves, to tie my necktie, to help me up after a fall, etc.  In a thousand ways Nancy has assumed the role of care giver when I need a guiding hand. 

Lynne Remembers:
My Mother idolized Milton.  She believed him to be a wise man.  She knew he was always  there for her.  He was one of the few people Mom talked to in the last few days before her death.  Milton and Nancy came to visit her in the Nursing Home.  Milton read scripture at her bedside and then turned to walk away.  She called him back to her bedside and said, “More, Milton.”  (Thanks, Milton.)
He is a great storyteller.  It was always a special event when Milton came (with his mattress for the floor).  I got to stay up late and listen to him tell about his churches, his “new” ideas, his students, his kids, his philosophy, and his ideas about theology.   Our family continued to think and talk about “what Milton said” long after he had gone home.  I bet Milton and  Grandpa had real conversations.
I asked Milton how I would know if I was in love enough with Jim to marry him.  We had lunch together at Portland State University, and he told me how he knew he loved Nancy.  She could eat an apple in bed and it didn’t bug him!    Milton and Dad officiated at our wedding 35 years ago!  He told Mom all I should have to do on my wedding day was shave my legs!
He had good music playing in his church offices, and he typed his own sermons.
He has always had big cars that smell new, and he can read a book (propped on the steering wheel) while he drives!
Milton loves fudge.
He taught me to say, “I’ve done that.”

Glenda Remembers:
I think somewhere I have a picture that Uncle Milton drew of me long ago.   He called it “Slugger Potet.”

Gail Remembers:
Mom sent me to him to try to keep me from getting into too much trouble.  (It didn’t help!)

Barb Remembers:
Milton and Nancy took me in during my troubled youth.  I wasn’t an instant success story, it took   20 years, but I appreciate the helping hand.  I figure there must have been some prayers sent up for me and I appreciate those too.
God’s sovereignty – intercessory prayer – free will.  I wish I could understand so I’d know where to put the emphasis.  Is it OK to write this on the “preacher’s” page?  I’ve decided to help God out tho, in raising my own kids.  Once they hit the teen-age years you can reach me by snail-mail on the isolated Alaskan tundra.

Del Remembers:
Milton was in my college class.  H. R. and Milton graduated with me in 1949.  While I was working at Nafziger’s, I remember Milton and his father coming in and both ordering, at the same time, made-to-measure suits - expensive ones, too!  Possibly for graduation, but I’m not sure.

Lois Remembers:
The one and only – but who needs more when you have Milton?  The pride and joy of all of us.

Robin Remembers:
Milton came to visit from far away.  He would always bring his mattress with him and throw it on the floor to sleep at night.  What fun it was to listen to the stories that would begin when everyone camped around that mattress.  Did he haul that thing on top of his car?  I always did love listening in on stories and he could really tell them.  He talked about such interesting things.  He was so LOVED and respected by everyone.  He had a spot right up there next to God in the eyes of my family, and I think the rest of you too.

Diane Remembers;
Mom used to light up when Milton came to visit.  He is a storyteller – and I could sit and listen for as long as he would talk.  He is a wise man.

Copyright © 2003-2008 philfrisk
Last modified: March 31, 2008