Mom's "Red Noodles" and Other Nonsense

Growing Up with a Preacher Man

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

Mom's "Red Noodles" and Other Nonsense
____________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard
This post was updated December 31, 2022

My mother hated to cook, and she didn't keep it a secret from anyone, either. For evening dinner, we had a seemingly rotating schedule of Kentucky Fried Chicken, Banquet Entrees, meatloaf, vegetable soup, ham and beans, and pot roast. They were always delicious, even if she did hate making them. Mom also hated Sundays. Everything about Sundays. Is it because she was married to a pastor? I'm not sure what it was about Sunday that she couldn't stand, but, after she started to work at the Monticello Day Care Center, she decided she was never again going to cook a Sunday evening meal. One Sunday evening, however, Mom cooked up a mess of macaroni, to which she added salt, butter and tomato sauce. It was delicious.

I quickly learned how to do this on my own, and I believe that was the final death knell for Sunday evening dinner. I'm not sure when I began doing a lot of my own cooking, but I was 11 years old when I started counting calories. I was an overweight child. My mom made fun of me for it yet continued to buy sugary sweets. We never suffered from not having a doughnut in the house. I started counting calories and working out in 6th grade, and it worked. I lost the weight. But eating right? No, not until much later in life. Mom didn't keep vegetables in the house aside from canned corn, green beans, peas, and carrots.

Funny how things are handed down from mother to daughter when you think about it, especially, I think, after your mom has passed. I made macaroni and tomato sauce for myself many times as a child and as an adult. And then, when my daughter was born, I started making them for her. In fact, it was she who coined the term "red noodles." Why we didn't call it "red macaroni," I don't know, except it doesn't roll off the tongue the way red noodles does. When my daughter was little, mom's red noodle recipe morphed into those little pasta wagon wheels or whatever pasta her granddaughter wanted that day.

Something else I learned, not from my mom but from the day care center cook, was "butter bread." This was two slices of white bread with margarine spread evenly from crust to crust on one of the slices. Then put on the other slice to make a sandwich and cut into quarters. My daughter called it "butter bread," another staple of my childhood and hers. Its okay, though. She has grown up to become a healthy veg-heavy private chef. The butter bread didn't do any lasting damage.

When I was growing up, we didn't have a microwave oven, as they hadn't been invented yet, but I loved TV dinners. The food was contained in an aluminum rectangle with dividers to keep everything separated, wrapped with foil on top. To heat the food, it had to be put into the oven. I eventually learned to make mashed potatoes for myself from a box and Banquet Foods came up with "boiling bags." Their Salisbury steak or turkey with dressing were packaged in plastic bags. The instructions were to drop the bag into boiling water for about 5 minutes. Couple that with boxed mashed potatoes and boom! Instant TV dinner! No vegetables needed! My pocket calorie counting book didn't come with nutrition info, by the way, just calorie information.

Something else I learned to do as a child, and I have no idea how, but perhaps from the Betty Crocker cookbook my mom had. I loved chipped corn beef on toast. And so I would make that for dinner sometimes - or lunch. Both my parents worked and I had to fend for myself quite a lot. After Food Network came onto the scene, I learned that what I was making was a roux. Fancy!

That's the thing about the Betty Crocker cookbook and the cooking shows on TV in the 1960s. They assumed you had already learned the basics of cooking from your mother. I hadn't. That I learned to make a roux as a child still boggles my mind to this day. I have also learned from that basic roux, I can make gravy and bechamel for mac-n-cheese! 

When I married my first husband, I decided I was going to cook every meal every day. As an example of my poor cooking, I would put pork chops covered in flour into cold oil. Then I would put a lid on the pan and slowly heat everything up until the "juices ran clear." The flour never stuck to the meat, and I am positive that they were awful. But my husband and I would eat everything I made.  Oh, he made fun of me mercilessly in front of his family, but he never complained at home. This was in the 1980s, and we still didn't have Food Network. I didn't realize that I just needed to learn some basics. Now I know how to properly dredge meat and that it needs to be put it into hot oil and no lid!!!

I didn't inherit my mother's gifts for art. She was very good with colors, I'm not. She was so talented in painting things; decorative art is what she called it. I can draw a stick figure pretty good. She knew exactly what items of clothing go together. I'm better at it now. I inherited very few of Mom's good qualities, but my daughter inherited them all. She can paint and draw and do all the things my Mom was talented with doing. She's fabulous with hair and make-up and clothes, just like my mom. She’s also great at sewing, again, just like Mom. But unlike Mom, my daughter loves to cook. She can make the most complicated dishes. She can Guy's Grocery Games anything that's in the kitchen. She can make pasta and biscuits and cornbread from scratch, from memory, and without measuring anything, and they are all to die for. She can get anyone to eat their vegetables.  And something else she's good at, too. She can make red noodles.

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC

Things My Mom Lost

Growing Up with a Preacher Man

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

Things My Mom Lost
____________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

We all lose things. 

Yesterday at church, at the noon service for Maundy Thursday, I wanted to look nice. I put on my diamond earrings that my husband gave me, my circle heart necklace, and my wedding rings. My skin is so sensitive, I can only wear my wedding rings sparingly, unfortunately. Then, I saw Mom's tennis bracelet that I got from her after she died. I saw it, put it on, and went to church. Funny, too, I kept looking at it kept thinking how neat it was to be wearing a part of my mom at the service.

After church, I had a post-op appointment with the surgeon and then home. Once home, I went to the bathroom to get ready for bed, since I was done for the day, and I love my PJs! I took the necklace off, the rings, the earrings - ouchy wouchy - even really good earrings make my ears red after a little while. And then, the bracelet. But the bracelet wasn't there. I looked in the closet where I keep my jewelry. Not there. I went outside to look in my Jeep Compass. Not there. I called the church. Not there. I called the surgeon's office. Not there. The bracelet was gone; I had lost it. And then I thought, well... that figures.

Growing up, I was always losing things that belonged to Mom. In 7th grade, my mom finally let me get my ears pierced. After, I asked Mom if I could wear her beautiful earrings to school and, totally unlike her, she said yes. I promised her I would take good care of them, and that I wouldn't lose them. You guessed it. I lost them. In hindsight, I wish she would've said that I should just wear them to church and then take them off afterward. And that's what I should've done yesterday. But I forgot about the bracelet after our beautiful Maundy Thursday service was over.

When I was in 2nd grade at Woodlawn Elementary in Monticello, Indiana, I wore one of my mom's gorgeous scarves to school.  It was a particularly windy day, and Betty Maxwell and I were together on the playground, using our scarves as kites. The wind hit my mom's scarf just right, and it went soaring away. I mean, it flew away like it was fleeing the doomsday machine.

Mom lost her childhood home to the 1937 flood of the Ohio River in Scuffletown, Kentucky. Her Uncle John Pfingston was her rescuer that night. Thank God for Uncle John Pfingston. He saved everyone who lived in Scuffletown using his ferry.  After that, mom moved with her family just across the river to rural Newburgh, Indiana, close to Cypress Beach and Vanada Station. Click on photos to enlarge

Uncle John Pfingston's Ferry
Around 1937
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

She went to high school at Yankeetown, and then her school burned down, so she lost that, because they didn't rebuild. After the fire, they bussed the Yankeetown kids to Pioneer School in Boonville, Indiana. Mom never got over her school burning down. Even after dementia began to set in, she would often tell the story of her school burning down.

Mom's Senior Photo
1951, Boonville, IN
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

After Mom married Dad, she lost her name. She loved her name, Mary McLean. She hated being Mary Howard. Today women just hang onto their maiden name if they want. Not so in the 1950s, especially in the religious family she married into. Mom's brother had married Mary Lott, who became Mary McLean. Mom always resented this, feeling as if her sister-in-law had somehow stolen her name.

Mom (L) with her brothers and sister
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

In 1963, I moved with my family to Monticello, Indiana, where we would live until 1977. We built quite a life at Monticello. My mother was the director of the highly reputable Monticello Day Care Center. Fourteen years later, my father got this itch to move to Evansville. An opening came up at a church, and he jumped at the chance, moving us to Evansville. Mom lost everything. She lost her friends, her job, her high station in life, her big house. She lost it all. Once to Evansville, she pivoted and became a successful artist, but she never recovered from the move, often speaking of Monticello with tears in her eyes.

Mom in her art studio about 1995
Taken by Ruth Kretchmar (1927-2011)
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

Once her granddaughter was born, my mom soon began to teach her to sew. Together, they sewed a beautiful blanket. My mother loved that blanket, so Stephanie gave it to her. When Mom started talking about wanting to die somewhere around 2002, it got her into trouble. She also couldn't stop talking about the miscarriage she had in or around 1958. She would literally weep over this baby. She also couldn't stop talking about a family member who had been Catholic, who had married into the McLean family, and the McLean family shunned her for her Catholicism - I believe it might have been her paternal grandmother. My mother ended up in a mental ward at a hospital, and my father let her take the blanket that she and Stephanie had made together. You know the rest of the story. She lost the blanket. She came out of the mental ward, after shock treatment, not talking about her miscarriage or her family member. She was so angry about the blanket. She demanded that Stephanie make her a new one. And I told her, "Mom, I don't think she can, because I don't think she knows how to by herself."

And lastly, in the nursing home, just a few years before she died, my dad became obsessed with Mom wearing her wedding rings. Mom had lost so much weight, her rings didn't fit anymore. So Dad hired a jeweler from Boonville to come into the nursing home and measure her finger. Then the jeweler took the rings and resized them and cleaned them. Dad was so happy that Mom was going to wear her rings again, even though I warned him time and again that this was not a good idea. Dad rarely listened to me. He was hell bent on her wearing her wedding rings. She didn't wear them for very long until they were gone. We don't know what happened to them, but I was very careful not to be accusatory. My father, not so much.

Mom at Newburgh Healthcare about 2020
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

I'm not big into jewelry and never have been. My skin didn't used to be so sensitive, so that's not it. I think it's because I lost those earrings way back in 7th grade. I have always been so afraid of losing jewelry. But, I am going to buy another tennis bracelet to honor the memory of my mother. It probably won't look like the one I lost yesterday, but it's going to have a good clasp so that I don't lose it. And I'm only going to wear it to church.

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC

My Mom and Her Clothes - Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

Growing Up with a Preacher Man

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

My Mom and Her Clothes
____________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

Click on photos to enlarge

Mom in our backyard in Monticello, IN
About 1974
Always well-dressed
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

 I have been thinking about clothes, because I need some. Target used to be my go-to for cute tops, until the pandemic somehow sunk the fashion world and sent it back to the 1800s.

Now, in 2022, it feels like they're trying to dig themselves out of the fashion hole, but I still didn't find any cute tops there yesterday. Instead, I found this:

It made for a good Facebook post, though, and my friends were discussing clothes. From this discussion, I remembered my parents once more and how they both were always dressed very well.

I don't know where or how my parents learned to dress. My mother was fantastic with colors. Me? Not at all. Nor was my dad, and so my mother would help him pick out what tie went with what suit, and he loved her for it.

Growing up in Monticello, Indiana, my father went to what was called a haberdasher. This was a person who dealt in men's clothes and helped businessmen dress well. Sure, my dad was a pastor, but make no mistake, he considered himself a businessman. Dad had a beautiful fedora that he kept in a hat box when he wasn't wearing it. Now that's saying something. If that man ever wore jeans in his life, I didn't know it. He was always dressed "to the nines," as they say. Suit slacks, button down shirt and tie on casual days, suit coat on not so casual day. When pastors started dressing casually for the church service, he lamented this. His reasoning was that because businessmen are always dressed well, then pastors should too. (Click on photos to enlarge.)

Mom could sew really well, too, so she would help Dad with alterations if needed. And look at that beautiful dress and those shoes on the above 1948 picture of Mom and Dad.

Mom loved clothes, jewelry, shoes, make-up... all the things. She would spend hours sometimes getting herself ready to go somewhere. Everything had to be just right. Just going through pictures of my parents to share here on this blog post, every picture, they are dressed very well.

Mom, second to the left, with her siblings.

Around 1977

Around 2001

Unfortunately, growing up, my mother was very strict in what I could and could not wear. I hated being under the pressure. I was already anxious as it were, a bit on the chubby side, and with a total lack of self-confidence. If I found things to wear that I was comfortable with, she would say no. I remember once I had put on an orange pair of pants and an orange shirt to wear to our church's skating party, and she grabbed me and told me in no uncertain terms that I wasn't leaving the house looking like that. We can laugh about it now.

When I was a young girl, she would spend what seemed like forever getting my bow tied on my dress just right for Sunday church. Standing still for however long it took her to get it perfect was harrowing, waiting for her to have it just right. And for what? A bow? Every time when she would untie the bow in exasperation, my spirits would fall.

Mom and me at Lincoln State Park
I'd say about 1965-66

It was such a fight all the time. Mom would drag me every year to Lafayette to shop for school clothes, and I can't stand to shop very long even to this day. We would hunt all morning for clothes to wear, and I hated everything she picked out, and she hated everything I picked out. Then we'd have lunch, and I'd be ready to go home, but I still didn't have any clothes. So, I gave in and let her buy the clothes she wanted me to have, and then I'd wear the same thing over and over again, even though I had perfectly good clothes in my closet. My body image, for one thing, was down the drain. That was a lot of it. But also, she never called me out for not wearing the clothes she had bought for me.

She finally one day took me to Miller's Department Store in Monticello and had a young lady there try to help me with things to wear. The thing about Miller's Department Store is that they didn't like their customers very much. I found a few things on that visit, but we only went once.

Finally at 16, she let me loose. We had just gotten a newfangled general merchandise retailer in our little town called Schultz Department Store - a fancy K-Mart. I was so happy. She gave me money and said "go buy your own clothes." And boy, did I ever. This is one of the first outfits I bought after being given my liberation. It's not so bad, right?

The first outfit I bought on my own
I've always loved cemeteries
My apologies to the Owens family

Even toward the end, my dad made sure my mom always had good clothes to wear at the nursing home. He would pick them out himself and take them down there, and tell the workers exactly what pants went with what shirt. He also made sure her hair was done by a beautician every week.

Mom at the nursing home, December 2020

 My father's impeccable dress may have done him some disservice at the end. I was trying my hardest to get people to see that he needed help, and no one would listen, including my dad. He still was able to dress well, and he was in denial that he needed help. Because he played everything off, so did everyone else, no matter how loud I was yelling to the contrary. It was too late by the time he realized he needed help. We were able to get him into the nursing home, but it was too late to make him well again.

In the end, Mom passed just months after Dad, so we decided to brand their funeral pics by using this one from 1976. I'm not sure why Dad is cut off a bit in this one. They are fully centered in the original. I loved that tree behind them - a sassafras that was in our front yard at Monticello. But this picture epitomizes my parents and their impeccable dress. A fitting tribute, I thought, to their end of life.

 

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC

Thoughts About My Mother and Her Dying

 Growing Up with a Preacher Man

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

Thoughts About My Mother and Her Dying
____________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

I didn't cry much when Dad died in October of this year (2021). I was half-mad, but I didn't cry. Half-mad, because I couldn't get him to accept the care he needed until it was too late. If I could've gotten him into Hamilton Pointe when I wanted to earlier this year, he might still be with us. So yeah, half-mad, but I didn't cry. Just a few days before his death, we were able to get an emergency admission into Newburgh Healthcare, thanks to the amazing caregivers at Heart to Heart Hospice and, of course, the staff of Newburgh Healthcare. But Dad rarely listened to me or sought my counsel.

Mom stopped eating after Dad died, but that also wasn't a surprise. My mother was the Queen of No. No to me having Power of Attorney. Thankfully, the social worker at Newburgh Healthcare talked her out of saying no to that. No to needing to eat. No to the Covid booster. No to getting her diabetes finger prick, and no to insulin. And, the last time I saw my mother lucid, it was no to the brownie that was on her plate. As my daughter, Stephanie, recalls, "She chucked that brownie across the table. It's now my favorite memory." And then, the other resident sitting at the table with us said, "I want my brownie, though. Can you push it closer to me?" Which the answer was, Absolutely!

Dad could always talk Mom out of saying "no." Always. Every time. One of the workers told me that once when Dad came in to pick up Mom for church on a Sunday morning, he was upset that Mom wasn't dressed and ready to go. The worker told him that she had refused to get up that morning. Dad went into the room, she said, and he came out a few minutes later and said, "She's ready now." Dad would've been able to talk Mom into eating, or into taking the Covid booster, or anything else she needed to be talked into. As with my Dad, I never had that power with my Mom. To be fair, I'm pretty stubborn myself.

The day before Mom died, 19 Dec 2021, hospice called to say she had gone down hill very quickly that Sunday. The next morning, while in the bath, the nurse at Newburgh Healthcare called to say that she wasn't expected to make it. Well, I've heard that one before. There were quite a few times the last 20 years when I have seen Mom so ill that I didn't expect her to make it. One of those times was when she was admitted to Newburgh Healthcare in 2014. I didn't think she'd be in there for more than a couple of days. She stayed 7 years.

So I was in the bath, and they called and wanted me to come in as quickly as I could. I kind of thought that maybe this was going to be it. But, I didn't expect it to be that very day. I got to the nursing home before the hour was up, met with the hospice nurse and the facility nurse, and then the chaplain came in. Mom was on morphine and comfortable. Remembering how I lost all my pictures because I was complacent in getting them out of my dad's house, I picked up a few things I knew I wanted from my mother. Memories. Two pieces of the last nativity set that she didn't finish. (She handmade many nativity sets in her lifetime.) Her Bible. A couple of photo albums she had that was of her McLean family. And then, I rushed out, heading to go to work, leaving her behind with the chaplain. Click on photos to enlarge

 As I was leaving, the business personnel, who were having lunch together in the break room, asked me if she had passed. I said, "no, not yet." But I had to go to work. I had piano lessons scheduled for Monday and Tuesday of that week, having then the rest of the year to myself. I would be back tomorrow, I reasoned, and this is what I told the workers. And I would be off after that to give Mom all the time in the world.

I got the call while I was teaching that afternoon, and since I didn't answer, Stephanie was the second person they called to tell her Mom had passed. I still didn't cry. Stephanie did.

I didn't cry as we were cleaning out her room at Newburgh Healthcare. I didn't cry when talking with the pastor who was to give her eulogy. I didn't cry at the visitation. I didn't cry during her eulogy. Death is so natural to me. As a pastor's daughter, I grew up with death. My first marriage, which lasted 29 years, was to a man who worked maintenance at a funeral home and whose best friends were funeral directors. We hung out a lot at the funeral home. I saw a lot of death. And, I have been a church musician practically my whole life and have played countless funerals. Death doesn't bother me.

After the funeral service, Kenny drove Stephanie and I in our Jeep Compass behind the hearse all the way from Washington Avenue in Evansville, Indiana, to Yankeetown, Indiana, if not on the grounds of Alcoa, pretty close, to Bates Hill Cemetery. We had just been there a few months ago for my father's burial, and Stephanie and I had visited later for a picture of the stone for Find-A-Grave. It was familiar.

Pastor said a few words and had a prayer. And then that was it. It was time to go. But... but... I couldn't leave her here. Everyone had started walking to their cars. I grabbed Stephanie's hand to try to stop myself from crying. We can't leave her here, I thought. Are we just going to leave her here? I decided I wouldn't leave. I'd sit there forever, fighting back tears. I didn't care how long it would take; I was just going to sit there and wait. I could see in the corner of my eye that Pastor was waiting for me to be okay enough to get up from the chair I was sitting in. Stephanie coaxed me up. I knew I had to leave. I knew I couldn't sit there, but why couldn't I? We can't just leave her here!

My mother and I. We never were close. We never really saw anything eye-to-eye. And we were never going to no matter what either one of us did. But, in that moment, I understood that this was my mom and that she was gone. She didn't visit me after her death like my father did, but this was still my mom, and she still was gone.

But she's not really gone, is she? She's in her heavenly home with her sister, her mom, and my dad. When she and her sister put their heads together, there was no one else. Betty has been gone 9 long years now. And now, they're with each other again, with their heads together, no doubt, scheming their next project.

Mom with her younger sister, Betty
They were always close
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

Uncle Rufus Jr., Mom, Uncle Eddie, Aunt Betty, Uncle Owen
Only the youngest, Owen, is left
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

 

Stephanie walked with me back to the car, but I asked my husband permission - who knows why in that moment - but I asked permission to go see my Aunt Robbin one last time before they drove back to their home near Indianapolis. Everyone else were in their cars, ready to go, but no one could leave until we did, because we had them blocked in. So Stephanie walked me down the procession of cars. I didn't know what vehicle they were in, but it didn't matter. Aunt Robbin jumped out of the vehicle, and we hugged one last time. I don't think Aunt Robbin really understood how much I have always loved her until after my parents died. She asked me to come see her soon, and I said, "I want to." And I do. And hopefully that's in the cards for 2022 - which I think is going to be a great year, by the way.

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC

Three Changes After Dad's Death

In memory of William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)

__________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

I've noticed three changes have occurred since I was able to finally get my dad into Newburgh Healthcare. Once he was safely in there, I could breathe again. I knew he'd either start to feel better, or he would die in peace. The latter is what occurred.

Sleep experts say your bedroom should be dark. To that end, I painted our bedroom "Ice Cave." Although internet swatches of this color show a lighter blue, its true color is actually very dark and deep. I bought a black comforter, pulled all the light wood furniture out and put black furniture in. It is very dark in there now, and I love it.

I have this weird feeling about other people's bedrooms. I'm sure it's something from my childhood, but I've always felt that bedrooms should be private, personal, and intimate. To that end, I've always kept this room dark, even in the day, so that no one visiting would be able to see it, even with the door open.

Oddly, after I got my father in Newburgh Healthcare, I couldn't stand to look into that dark room and not be able to see anything in it. I have lamps that I put in that also have dark shades when they're turned off. Now, I leave one of the lamps on during the day, so that when I look in, I can see the bedroom. Click on photos to enlarge

The stuffed animals are unapologetically mine

As a minimalist, (who has 6 stuffed animals in her bed) I have very little sentiment toward things. I have a few family bibles, but that's the genealogist in me. I have a few of my daughter's trinkets she made when in grade school. For whatever reason, having too much stuff makes me feel insecure. It's crushing. My daughter has inherited this trait from me.

So, when Dad gave me the quilt Mom had made for my daughter, but then decided to keep for herself instead, my daughter and I thought to sell the quilt. Neither of us wanted it or needed it. And it takes up so much room in my closet.

The shadowed area is my shadow

After Dad died, however, we have decided to keep the quilt. Just like that, the feelings toward it inverted. Even my attitude toward all the work my mother - a maximalist - did. This oil painting that Mom did many years ago is now proudly displayed above my piano.

The third thing for me that changed was my entire routine. For example, I used to love to watch The Drew Barrymore Show. I haven't watched a single one this new season and oddly, I no longer have the desire to. I have the tv off most of the time during the day now. While that used to be my modus operandi anyway, after living with Kenny these past 7 years, I had become comfortable with the TV blaring. I have lost that comfort. Give me quiet and let me read.

In a nutshell for me, after losing Dad:

1. Some things become bothersome - like my bedroom being dark during the day.

2. Things that meant nothing increase in value - like the quilt and the oil painting.

3. Routines change - I now have the TV off during the day.

My daughter adds a fourth bullet point: "Seeing someone lose their life leads you to reevaluate your own."

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC

My Parents' Back Story - WIlliam Lester Howard and Mary Eulalie McLean

Growing Up with a Preacher Man 

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

My Parent's Backstory
____________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

After my father graduated from the high school in Alfordsville, Indiana, in 1947, he went to Indianapolis to hang out with his brother, my Uncle Willis. They lived in a boarding house together, and my father got a job at a cardboard factory making 55 cents an hour.  After only a year, he stated he "received the call." This is how at least Baptist pastors say how they know that God is "calling" them to the ministry. Uncle Willis and Dad next got jobs at a Christian Church doing construction for an expansion, paying $1.17 an hour, but that job ended when the summer ended. After that, my father got a job at Standard Brands. 

My father at this point wasn't quite Baptist yet. He grew up in the Methodist Church there at Alfordsville, infused with an unhealthy dose of "holiness." I'm pretty sure some of the Methodist doctrine has changed since the late 1940s, but I know that all the rules my father felt like he had to follow were not part of that doctrine.

After a year in Indianapolis, my father had saved up enough to attend Taylor University. This school continues to this day as a nondenominational Christian college and is located in Upland, Indiana. He attended for one year before his savings ran out. He loved it at Taylor University, and I'm sorry he let money make the decision for him that he could not afford to continue there. That was The Silent Generation. Hard-working, thrifty, loyal. That was my father. 

After the year at Taylor was over, he went back to Alfordsville to live with his brother John, sister Esther, and his mom. Not knowing what else to do, he wrote to the District Superintendent (D.S.) in Evansville and asked if there were any jobs open for a student pastorate. The D.S. gave him the Methodist churches of Gentryville and Buffaloville. Dad was 19, and the pay was $20 a week. A woman in Gentryville by the name of Kate Pittman fixed all his meals for $3.00 a week. They were very good company for each other. He lived in the parsonage at Gentryville. Click on photos to enlarge

In or around 1948
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

Yankeetown sanctuary, now razed
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

After a year, the D.S. felt Dad should be closer to Evansville, since he had made the decision to enroll at Evansville College. His churches at that time were in Warrick County, Indiana and included Yankeetown, Pelzer, Union, and Oak Grove Methodist Churches. It was common at that time for young Methodist pastors in rural areas to have two or more churches.

Dad wasn't happy at Evansville College, though. He didn't like their liberal outlook towards religion, and he thought, again, it was just too much money. Therefore, after two quarters, he decided to transfer to Oakland City College.

My mother went to the Yankeetown church with her family when Dad was pastor there. Dad told stories of eating Sunday dinner at my grandparent's house each week. I'm sure it was my grandparent's plan all along to set my father up with my mother. And my mother was happy for the arrangement. Although she dearly loved her parents and, after they passed, idolized them, at that point in time, she wanted out of their house more than anything else. She was 17. My father was 21.

11 Jul 1951
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

After Dad married my mother in 1951, the D. S. transferred my father to Selvin, Folsomville, Garrison Chapel, and Mt. Pleasant Methodist Churches. It was here that Dad decided to switch from the Methodist Church to the American Baptist Church. He never liked infant baptism, believing that people should make their own decision for Christ and then be baptized, making a public confession at that time. He also thought that communism was infiltrating the Methodist Church, and that concerned my father greatly. As someone remarked to me after Dad died, "So... McCarthyism got to him?" Um, that would be a yes.

Once this decision was made, he quit the Methodist Church, which meant The Methodist Church was no longer there to give him employment. Because of that, my parents moved from Selvin into an apartment on Governor Street in Evansville. My dad got into a lot of debt at this time, buying appliances and other things to set up the household. He felt that he had to work, so he got a job at Briggs, which made Plymouth bodies for the Chrysler Factory that was in Evansville at that time. This was at the corner of Columbia and Evans. He got out of debt, but the schedule was grueling. He worked second shift, and then would drive to Oakland City College, and then would come home and do school work, and then go back to work. My mother, in the meantime, worked at Mead Johnson on their secretarial staff.

Briggs Manufacturing
USI Special Collections via Historic Evansville

Once my father graduated Oakland City College in 1954, he enrolled at Southern Baptist Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky, leaving my mother to live in her parent's garage. She hated this, and one thing Dad was good at was *trying* to make Mom happy. It wasn't long, then, that she was living with Dad in Louisville in seminary housing. It was here that she learned to sew. It was also here that she gave birth to a son, Wayne, whose namesake was after a man my father would never see again. My namesake is similar.

In or around 1951

1956
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

After his graduation from Southern Baptist Seminary in 1958, Dad took a job at Hills Baptist Church in Kirklin, Indiana. American Baptist Churches are different from the Methodists in that the individual churches form search committees to look for a pastor. The pastor applies for the job, and then the search committee decides whether to hire the candidate or not. 

Graduation Photo
Louisville, KY

In 1961, I was born in nearby Noblesville, Indiana as Kirklin didn't have a hospital.

Me at 3 months with unknown neighbor
This is definitely not my mother

From Hills, Dad bounced to Centerville and, stating to me later that he didn't care for Southern Indiana, he jumped at the chance to move his family to Northern Indiana.

At Centerville
In or around 1963

My father evidently forgot about his dislike of Southern Indiana, because 14 years after the move to Monticello, Indiana, we moved back to Evansville, Indiana, which is located on the southern border of the state. Can't get more south in Indiana than Evansville.

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC

Our Arrival at Monticello, IN - 1963

Growing Up with a Preacher Man

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

Our Arrival at Monticello, IN - 1963
____________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

My first memory, whether planted or real, was on moving day, 1963. I was 2 years old. The memory I have is clutching my black velvet purse and probably my doll, Billy, who had apparently been given to me as a gift. Billy was a Madame Alexander knock-off, and she was my best friend. I was closer to that doll than to anyone else. In this memory, I was walking on a sidewalk, heading toward our car. We didn't have car seats in 1963 or seatbelts in the back seat. I made it out alive, though.

The second memory, whether planted or real, is that of Bill and Ruth Kretchmar showing us around the house we were going to move into. It was located on Beach Drive in Monticello, Indiana.  My father had taken the position there as pastor for the American Baptist Church in this small resort town. The church had been started about five years prior, and they were meeting in a store front on the east side of Monticello. My father's mission, and he accepted it, was to build a church there on Beach Drive that would become The First American Baptist Church of Monticello.

I don't remember anything else after that until they were ready to begin preparations for building the church. The first project was moving our house back from the street to make room for the church and its parking lot. My only memory was of Moving Day. This was in 1965. I was 4 years old. I was crying - bawling - looking for perhaps my mother. I don't know what was wrong, but I'm sure I was clutching Billy. It might have been Mr. Mann who found me. Someone who wasn't my mother calmed me that day. Click on photos to enlarge

Moving that house was genius. My father was very good at building things. He and the church members built a basement that the house would stand on. This made our house huge. One of the additional rooms added - that would eventually become my bedroom when I got older - was big enough for a bed, desk, chest of drawers, dresser, perfume table, cedar chest, and a rocking chair. Even with all that, there was still plenty of room for me to sit on the floor and play cards - an activity that got me through the stress of being "Rev. Howard's daughter". But... I'm getting ahead of myself here!

After moving day, our house also had enough room for a playroom for me and a huge bedroom for my brother. We had a shower room and laundry room in the basement. We also had a living room in the basement with dark wood paneling. In the evenings, when the sun was setting and the wind was blowing through our many trees, it would shine into the window, casting moving shadows onto the wood paneling. To make things even better, someone had put a plastic Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer in the sill.

Mom sitting in our green chair in the downstairs living room
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

The rest of the walk-out basement contained a huge kitchen and dining room with cabinets all around. And a pantry! Upstairs were three bedrooms, a piano room for me, a full bathroom, my mother's beauty shop and a formal living room. I always remembered that this house was one of those with two front doors. The first front door allowed visitors into the formal living room without letting them into the rest of the house. So the house could be a mess, except for the formal living room, and visitors would never know it was a mess! But our house was never a mess. My mother kept it tidy and clean, almost obsessively so. As for the memory of the two front doors, it is a false memory. Clearly the pictures above show just one front door.

We also had a large attic that had a real walkable floor - probably installed by my handyman father. And it was tall enough to stand in. This was my dad's space that he called his "study". He kept all his books there and, looking back, all his mess. I have been told that men like to have all their stuff out where they can see it. In this space, my father could have all his stuff out. His papers, his booklets, his books, his brochures, and his pictures. A plus for me, there was a small roof outside the attic where I could sunbathe and no one could see me. I don't remember if my mother ever went up to the attic to clean or otherwise, but I don't think she did.

My mom in the back of our big house
Notice the windows above in the attic
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

We lived on 7 acres of land PLUS behind the home was a large, wooded area and behind that, the old, huge Monticello City Cemetery. It was heaven living on that property. I would spend most of my time in the woods and in that cemetery. It is probably why I became a genealogist. I would walk through the cemetery and study the stones and wonder what their stories were. I still do that today.

I lived in Monticello with my family for 14 years and enjoyed all the pleasures of living in a resort town that featured twin lakes - Lake Shafer and Lake Freeman. It was here that I experienced so much pain and suffering, joy and sorrow, fun and happiness. My experiences here, growing up as a preacher's kid, gave shape to my entire life. That life in the end is very happy and satisfying and fun. But it took a while to get there.

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC