Growing Up in Oxford in the 1950s and Coming Home Again
by Sarah Haynes Standard
I guess everyone in their early years think they are growing up in the best of times. I know the children of Oxford growing up in the 50"s did. We were the children of the greatest generation. We grew up during innocent times when mamas and daddies ruled with switches and children respected authority; roads were unpaved and pinecones were hand grenades. Summers were the best! Few families had televisions, so we were left to our great imaginations, our bikes, cardboard boxes, and cap guns, to entertain us. Cardboard boxes were like fast sleds on pine straw hills; cap guns killed lots of imaginary Indians and bank robbers; and our bikes were our only means of transportation. We waded in creeks, walked barefooted on grass lakes after a rain, and red clay oozed thru our toes when ditches were full of water.
This is a brother and sister story about Oxford and how our memories and love grow more dear as years pass. My brother, Tommy Haynes, was born in 1945 along with Bill, Sam, and Tommy Allgood, Gary Budd, Curtis Jackson, and Hubert White. I always felt like I had seven older brothers, and my friends Kathy Harwell, Marcia Elizer, Mary Margaret, Diane, and Rite Allgood, and Joyce White were like my sisters. The church, Allen Memorial (UMC) was the center of most of our activities. We held our first "jobs" either cutting grass or cleaning the Sunday School Building. Then my brother started throwing the afternoon paper and I delivered flowers for the Oxford Flower Shop.
One Sunday, Tommy and Curtis sat in the back of the sanctuary. They took a handful of marbles and let them roll down the sloping wooden floor. It’s amazing how loud marbles sound when all is quiet and they pick up momentum as they roll forward bumping into pews and shoes. And why is any-and-everything funnier in the quiet of a church service or during Communion -- like when a child wants to get the last "sip" by sticking his tongue in the communion cup and acts like it has gotten stuck on his tongue. Kathy and I studied fashion on Communion Sundays, as female students walked down the aisle to take Communion. We sat on "our" aisle seats and checked dress, shoes, and hats; one cough from me meant I liked the outfit; two coughs from Kathy meant she agreed.
A Friday was not a Friday unless we (including most of the names mentioned above) went to Mother Budd's house for "happy hour." Happy Hour is when Jesus came alive on a felt board on her side porch. We learned about Adam, Eve, the apple, Moses being found in the bull rushes, and the birth of Jesus. Sometimes Mother Budd would play the piano and we would sing our favorite hymns from the old upper room songbook in preparation for singing on Sunday nights at church. Fruit juice was served from colorful jelly jar glasses and all the cookies on the plate (because we knew Mother Budd would be serving them the next week if left uneaten). Oh how we loved Mother Budd! She would be shocked to know what "happy hour" has come to mean today.
One Saturday in the heat of the summer, Tommy was cutting the grass at the church. He decided to go in the church kitchen to get something to drink. In the refrigerator, to his delight, were three jugs of Welch's grape juice. He took the top off, lips to the jug, and threw back his head -- just as Mrs. Scarborough came in yelling, “Tommy Haynes! You’re drinking the blood of Jesus!”
As children we were never overly excited about church, but Sunday school and Methodist Youth Fellowship (M.Y.F.) were totally another thing. This meant Vacation Bible School, Ellis's Lake, Hard Labor Creek picnics, and trips to Stone Mountain and Camp Glisson. Our Sunday School teachers had us memorize Bible verses and Miss Elizabeth Paine gave us crocheted crosses when we memorized them perfectly. Dick Burnett drove us up Stone Mountain in his VW Beetle long before there was anything on top of the mountain. Tommy Allgood remembers the time when Charlie Burnett was waterskiing at Ellis Lake and the driver of the boat, sitting on the edge, got thrown off. Mr. Burnett was able to keep up on the skis while pulling the boat closer and closer to the shore just running it aground. What could have been a terrible accident was thwarted.
Oxford is a very special place. Ask any of us who stayed or moved away. We laughed, cried, loved and lived. We learned about death early on. David Elliott was only six when he was run over by a truck making a delivery to the college. Kathy's mama took her life when we were 15 and 16 -- the same year President Kennedy was killed in Dallas. David Burson was accidently shot in1968 the same year my brother came back from Viet Nam.
This is a brother and sister story about Oxford and how our memories and love grow more dear as years pass. My brother, Tommy Haynes, was born in 1945 along with Bill, Sam, and Tommy Allgood, Gary Budd, Curtis Jackson, and Hubert White. I always felt like I had seven older brothers, and my friends Kathy Harwell, Marcia Elizer, Mary Margaret, Diane, and Rite Allgood, and Joyce White were like my sisters. The church, Allen Memorial (UMC) was the center of most of our activities. We held our first "jobs" either cutting grass or cleaning the Sunday School Building. Then my brother started throwing the afternoon paper and I delivered flowers for the Oxford Flower Shop.
One Sunday, Tommy and Curtis sat in the back of the sanctuary. They took a handful of marbles and let them roll down the sloping wooden floor. It’s amazing how loud marbles sound when all is quiet and they pick up momentum as they roll forward bumping into pews and shoes. And why is any-and-everything funnier in the quiet of a church service or during Communion -- like when a child wants to get the last "sip" by sticking his tongue in the communion cup and acts like it has gotten stuck on his tongue. Kathy and I studied fashion on Communion Sundays, as female students walked down the aisle to take Communion. We sat on "our" aisle seats and checked dress, shoes, and hats; one cough from me meant I liked the outfit; two coughs from Kathy meant she agreed.
A Friday was not a Friday unless we (including most of the names mentioned above) went to Mother Budd's house for "happy hour." Happy Hour is when Jesus came alive on a felt board on her side porch. We learned about Adam, Eve, the apple, Moses being found in the bull rushes, and the birth of Jesus. Sometimes Mother Budd would play the piano and we would sing our favorite hymns from the old upper room songbook in preparation for singing on Sunday nights at church. Fruit juice was served from colorful jelly jar glasses and all the cookies on the plate (because we knew Mother Budd would be serving them the next week if left uneaten). Oh how we loved Mother Budd! She would be shocked to know what "happy hour" has come to mean today.
One Saturday in the heat of the summer, Tommy was cutting the grass at the church. He decided to go in the church kitchen to get something to drink. In the refrigerator, to his delight, were three jugs of Welch's grape juice. He took the top off, lips to the jug, and threw back his head -- just as Mrs. Scarborough came in yelling, “Tommy Haynes! You’re drinking the blood of Jesus!”
As children we were never overly excited about church, but Sunday school and Methodist Youth Fellowship (M.Y.F.) were totally another thing. This meant Vacation Bible School, Ellis's Lake, Hard Labor Creek picnics, and trips to Stone Mountain and Camp Glisson. Our Sunday School teachers had us memorize Bible verses and Miss Elizabeth Paine gave us crocheted crosses when we memorized them perfectly. Dick Burnett drove us up Stone Mountain in his VW Beetle long before there was anything on top of the mountain. Tommy Allgood remembers the time when Charlie Burnett was waterskiing at Ellis Lake and the driver of the boat, sitting on the edge, got thrown off. Mr. Burnett was able to keep up on the skis while pulling the boat closer and closer to the shore just running it aground. What could have been a terrible accident was thwarted.
Oxford is a very special place. Ask any of us who stayed or moved away. We laughed, cried, loved and lived. We learned about death early on. David Elliott was only six when he was run over by a truck making a delivery to the college. Kathy's mama took her life when we were 15 and 16 -- the same year President Kennedy was killed in Dallas. David Burson was accidently shot in1968 the same year my brother came back from Viet Nam.