Jeff Gill
Twelve Years Old in Granville – 1905
___
If Billy had ever seen a man cry before, he didn't recall it. And two
crying old men was just the strangest sight.
There in the vestibule of the Presbyterian church, they were just
hugging and weeping and talking across each other, and Billy glanced
about, to see that many other adults had moist eyes as they looked on.
But it was time to go on up the steps into the sanctuary, and the
throngs that had crowded the new sidewalks in front now marched
together towards worship.
This was no ordinary church service; the preacher was a visitor, an
elderly gent (older than the two downstairs) who had grown up here in
the village, while his father had been the parson, both of them
called Rev. Little.
Just as he had feared, they ended up back far enough in the crowd
that by the time they got to the upper level sanctuary, the only open
seats were to the front. Billy had already been warned by his mother
that the guest preacher's father had been an absolute bear about
fidgeting or any noise-making, accidental or not, during worship.
Sitting in the second pew left him thinking that his doom was sealed,
and the nature of that doom occupied his thoughts for much of the
early part of the service.
When Rev. Little stepped to the pulpit, everyone shifted and adjusted
themselves as quietly as they could; Billy was not the only one to
have heard reminders that morning of the senior Rev. Little's eagle
eye. It was likely to be a long sermon, and finding a good position
at the start gave you a fighting chance to make it to the end un-
glared-upon.
To the satisfaction of both young and old, the message was a warm and
affecting one. The minister spoke of his father Jacob, the struggles
to build the church in which they now sat, and further struggles were
alluded to, which some of the adults nodded at gravely.
He did not dwell on that cloud, but went on to recall the fiftieth
anniversary of the village, in 1855, and ceremonies his father
presided over in the earlier building. There was a town meeting of
sorts, and it was adjourned by one Elias Gilman, the oldest surviving
original settler, and it was seconded by the youngest "mature" lad
present, "my brother and now a pastor himself, George Little."
Everyone looked about and saw the silver head nodding, and smiled.
Rev. Charles Little went on to say "the motion they made and seconded
was to adjourn, to a date fifty years hence. And as the final vote
was taken, two boys in the balcony, about the age of . . ." and his
eye swept down into the second row, pointing directly at Billy, to
say "that young man right there. Those two whispered to each other,
as young men sometimes do during divine worship," and a soft chuckle
washed through the church.
"They said to each other, on that motion to come together again,
fifty years hence, that they would be there. And friends, I am glad
to reintroduce to you those two, who have returned to Granville from
the far corners of this land, Henry Carr & G.G. Walker, carrying with
them lightly the burden of another half-century."
At that, the two men from downstairs, weeping yet again, stood arm in
arm in the frontmost pew of the church.
Looking at them, Billy had two thoughts: that it was hard to imagine
they had ever been twelve, but surely they had – and that no one had
ever called him a young man before.
It was a grand day, all around.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around
central Ohio; tell him a story at knapsack77@gmail.com.
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