Reflections
Gene Redwine
Grandpa: An inspiration to us all
I took a walk through the woods this morning to the place of my earliest memories of one of the most important people in my life, my grandpa. To those outside the family, he was known as Brother Bill. Inside the family, he was Daddy, Uncle Bill, or Pop.....to everybody except me. Mama said they could never get me to say Pop when I was little. Instead, I would always call him Papa. As I got older, Papa just seemed right so I stuck with it.
Papa was born in 1903 in Tallahatchie County, Mississippi, the grandson of a Confederate soldier and the son of a rolling stone. His parents had three kids but were never married. He and Grandma had three kids also. Mama was the baby of the family. Like most poor folks back then, he made a living picking cotton and sawmilling, losing one of his pinky fingers to the blade of a groundhog sawmill as a young man. Mama was born in 1938. She was a little girl when Papa "got the call" to preach. Several years after his death, a friend of his told me Papa could read very little if any when he got "the call" but he taught himself to read by studying the Bible.
To be more precise, he was an evangelist. Evangelists were preachers who traveled the countryside preaching wherever they could draw a crowd. Papa traveled around the delta and hills of Mississippi preaching in first one small town and then another. That sometimes meant the whole family had to go with him.
Oftentimes, he would preach in tent revivals. Back in those days, evangelists would come through a little country town, set up a tent, similar to a small circus tent, and start having revival services. Along about dusk, when the field work was done, black and white folks alike would make their way to the tent to join in for some preachin' prayin' and singin'. At other times, If Papa didn't have a tent and couldn't borrow one, he'd have brush arbor revivals. He and some of the other men would cut some poles and frame up a rough lean-to type structure covered in underbrush for him to preach in. Whatever he had to do to have a place to preach.
Times were hard for the whole family back then. Mama used to tell about times they would live in a tent for weeks while Papa held revival services.
I came along in 1954. By then, he was in his 50s. He wasn't traveling as much as he did in his younger years but he was still preaching whenever and wherever he could.He had a "praying place" down in the woods across the road from where we all lived. He would walk down there every morning and pour his heart out to God. And I mean pour his heart out! He had a big voice anyway but when he prayed, he cried out loud enough for everybody in our little neighborhood to hear, and he prayed for all of them...all of us.
Admittedly, the family was his biggest mission field. He prayed earnestly for the older, wayward ones to "get right" with the Lord and for the younger ones to choose the right path. He constantly stayed after everybody to join him in church, with mixed success. But, when anybody in the family got sick or had some big personal problem to deal with, they all hunted him up to pray for them, which he gladly did. He never talked down to anybody and he never gave up on anybody but he was very plain in telling them right from wrong.
For many years, he didn't have a car so he walked most everywhere he went. In his later years, he came up with one somewhere but he didn't keep it very long. I remember being downtown one Saturday after they had changed the square to one-way traffic. I was walking down the sidewalk on one side of the square when Papa drove onto the square from the other side, going the wrong way. Luckily, he got where he was going without getting run over. He got rid of the car not long after and, to my knowledge, never drove again.
He loved to eat. Breakfast was biscuits, eggs, whatever kind of meat was available and black coffee. He always used a saucer with his coffee cup and would sometimes pour a little coffee into the saucer and dip his bread in it. He could eat eggs at every meal. Grandma once told him he ate so many eggs, he oughta tip his hat every time he passed a hen. He didn't like cornbread, said it scratched his throat.
He loved all us grandkids and tried to be a good example to us, often filling in for wayward parents he was praying for. I got to hear him preach lots of times, even went to a couple of his brush arbor meetings. My earliest memories of him though, go back to when I was no more than four or five years old.
He had rented a little building to have church in, about a mile from the neighborhood where we all lived. With no car, he usually walked down to the church and mama said sometimes I'd walk with him. As we walked, he would sing the old hymns. He didn't have a great singing voice but he made up for it by singing loud. I can still hear him singing.... I've a home prepared where the saints abide just over in the gloryland.... Then he might break into... Some glad morning when this life is o'er I'll fly away.
The incident that helps my mind go back to that time happened on a cold, damp wintry day. The building was just a plain, small concrete block structure but it served the purpose. It had an old wood heater up near the front to provide heat in the wintertime.
Most of the folks who attended the church were family members. On this particular day, some of the older kids talked me in to tossing a firecracker in the heater. I remember it causing quite a ruckus but I don't remember getting into trouble for it. Probably because I had been put up to it.
Papa always wanted the best for everybody. I loved him and always enjoyed being around him but, as often happens with kids and grandparents, I spent less time with him after I hit my teen years. In 1971, grandma passed away at a fairly young age of 68. Papa lived another 20 years. He preached as often as he could, wherever he could, as long as he could. I wish I had spent more time with him in those last twenty years.
He lived his last days in the house with mama. She took care of him as best she could. At the end, he required more help than she could give and had to move to a nursing home where he only lived a matter of days. He passed away in 1991 at the age of 88 and I still miss him. I wish I had grown up to be more like him. Our family lost a mighty prayer warrior that day. I'm convinced those prayers helped protect many of us more than we ever knew. All the old family is gone now. The land was sold and all the old houses were done away with many many years ago. The woods where he prayed are gone, replaced by pasture land. Those people and places exist only in the hearts and minds of us older grandchildren.
So, this morning, I walked through the woods to the only remaining connection to those days. A portion of the walls are all that's left of the little concrete block church building. The doors and windows are gone. The roof appears to have collapsed many years ago.
I made my way around to the side of the old building so I could look inside. I had hoped to see the old heater but it was long gone. But in my mind, I could see everything the way it used to be over 60 years ago, a fire in the heater, a couple dingy light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, Papa preaching and the little congregation singing... Some glad morning, when this life is o'er.....
Papa was born in 1903 in Tallahatchie County, Mississippi, the grandson of a Confederate soldier and the son of a rolling stone. His parents had three kids but were never married. He and Grandma had three kids also. Mama was the baby of the family. Like most poor folks back then, he made a living picking cotton and sawmilling, losing one of his pinky fingers to the blade of a groundhog sawmill as a young man. Mama was born in 1938. She was a little girl when Papa "got the call" to preach. Several years after his death, a friend of his told me Papa could read very little if any when he got "the call" but he taught himself to read by studying the Bible.
To be more precise, he was an evangelist. Evangelists were preachers who traveled the countryside preaching wherever they could draw a crowd. Papa traveled around the delta and hills of Mississippi preaching in first one small town and then another. That sometimes meant the whole family had to go with him.
Oftentimes, he would preach in tent revivals. Back in those days, evangelists would come through a little country town, set up a tent, similar to a small circus tent, and start having revival services. Along about dusk, when the field work was done, black and white folks alike would make their way to the tent to join in for some preachin' prayin' and singin'. At other times, If Papa didn't have a tent and couldn't borrow one, he'd have brush arbor revivals. He and some of the other men would cut some poles and frame up a rough lean-to type structure covered in underbrush for him to preach in. Whatever he had to do to have a place to preach.
Times were hard for the whole family back then. Mama used to tell about times they would live in a tent for weeks while Papa held revival services.
I came along in 1954. By then, he was in his 50s. He wasn't traveling as much as he did in his younger years but he was still preaching whenever and wherever he could.He had a "praying place" down in the woods across the road from where we all lived. He would walk down there every morning and pour his heart out to God. And I mean pour his heart out! He had a big voice anyway but when he prayed, he cried out loud enough for everybody in our little neighborhood to hear, and he prayed for all of them...all of us.
Admittedly, the family was his biggest mission field. He prayed earnestly for the older, wayward ones to "get right" with the Lord and for the younger ones to choose the right path. He constantly stayed after everybody to join him in church, with mixed success. But, when anybody in the family got sick or had some big personal problem to deal with, they all hunted him up to pray for them, which he gladly did. He never talked down to anybody and he never gave up on anybody but he was very plain in telling them right from wrong.
For many years, he didn't have a car so he walked most everywhere he went. In his later years, he came up with one somewhere but he didn't keep it very long. I remember being downtown one Saturday after they had changed the square to one-way traffic. I was walking down the sidewalk on one side of the square when Papa drove onto the square from the other side, going the wrong way. Luckily, he got where he was going without getting run over. He got rid of the car not long after and, to my knowledge, never drove again.
He loved to eat. Breakfast was biscuits, eggs, whatever kind of meat was available and black coffee. He always used a saucer with his coffee cup and would sometimes pour a little coffee into the saucer and dip his bread in it. He could eat eggs at every meal. Grandma once told him he ate so many eggs, he oughta tip his hat every time he passed a hen. He didn't like cornbread, said it scratched his throat.
He loved all us grandkids and tried to be a good example to us, often filling in for wayward parents he was praying for. I got to hear him preach lots of times, even went to a couple of his brush arbor meetings. My earliest memories of him though, go back to when I was no more than four or five years old.
He had rented a little building to have church in, about a mile from the neighborhood where we all lived. With no car, he usually walked down to the church and mama said sometimes I'd walk with him. As we walked, he would sing the old hymns. He didn't have a great singing voice but he made up for it by singing loud. I can still hear him singing.... I've a home prepared where the saints abide just over in the gloryland.... Then he might break into... Some glad morning when this life is o'er I'll fly away.
The incident that helps my mind go back to that time happened on a cold, damp wintry day. The building was just a plain, small concrete block structure but it served the purpose. It had an old wood heater up near the front to provide heat in the wintertime.
Most of the folks who attended the church were family members. On this particular day, some of the older kids talked me in to tossing a firecracker in the heater. I remember it causing quite a ruckus but I don't remember getting into trouble for it. Probably because I had been put up to it.
Papa always wanted the best for everybody. I loved him and always enjoyed being around him but, as often happens with kids and grandparents, I spent less time with him after I hit my teen years. In 1971, grandma passed away at a fairly young age of 68. Papa lived another 20 years. He preached as often as he could, wherever he could, as long as he could. I wish I had spent more time with him in those last twenty years.
He lived his last days in the house with mama. She took care of him as best she could. At the end, he required more help than she could give and had to move to a nursing home where he only lived a matter of days. He passed away in 1991 at the age of 88 and I still miss him. I wish I had grown up to be more like him. Our family lost a mighty prayer warrior that day. I'm convinced those prayers helped protect many of us more than we ever knew. All the old family is gone now. The land was sold and all the old houses were done away with many many years ago. The woods where he prayed are gone, replaced by pasture land. Those people and places exist only in the hearts and minds of us older grandchildren.
So, this morning, I walked through the woods to the only remaining connection to those days. A portion of the walls are all that's left of the little concrete block church building. The doors and windows are gone. The roof appears to have collapsed many years ago.
I made my way around to the side of the old building so I could look inside. I had hoped to see the old heater but it was long gone. But in my mind, I could see everything the way it used to be over 60 years ago, a fire in the heater, a couple dingy light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, Papa preaching and the little congregation singing... Some glad morning, when this life is o'er.....