the only one in town
I got an email and a phone message yesterday from a young man who had one of those difficult (for me) two first names. He was from a radio station in Tacoma and had heard “a story about a church in Oysterville that was open 24/7.” Was that my church, he wanted to know, and what could I tell him.
So, of course, I called. When it comes to Oysterville and the church I always call. I want people to know the “story” – a story fast fading into history. He sounded pleasant and eager and apparently wanted to involve the Oysterville Church in a radio story of some kind. We didn’t quite get that far, I’m afraid.
What was the story you heard about the church, asked I. That it was open 24/7, said he. And then he stopped. I guess I waited too long because he eagerly explained that he had been in Long Beach and had heard that story. Was it true? He wasn’t sure which of Oysterville’s churches it might be? He was hoping I knew which one and maybe even “went to that one.”
at the ‘y’
I tried to explain that Oysterville is a National Historic District. That the church is historic. That it’s the only one in town… “Yes, but do you ever – or do you know of anyone who ever – goes there at midnight to pray? You know, being open 24/7 and all?”
I’m sorry you didn’t come to Oysterville when you were so nearby, I said. And I explained about being a National Historic District. That once-upon-a-time no one locked doors; it wasn’t necessary. We all knew each other, had free access to one another’s homes… leaving the church unlocked is sort of a holdover from those days, I said. Another long silence.
“across from the church and facing the bay” . 1930
Does everyone in Oysterville belong to that one church he wanted to know. Maybe he was thinking that he’d have better luck talking to one of the other members. Obviously, our conversation was going nowhere and he wasn’t coming up with the answer to his radio show. You know what, I said. I don’t think I can really help you until you come to Oysterville and see what the church is all about for yourself. Then, knock on my door and we can talk… I’ll try to do that he said.
The phone call ended and I felt as though communication had not taken place. We were two aliens trying to breach the void – even though the words were familiar, they were totally out of any mutually understandable context. Kinda like when millennials begin talking cyberspace to me. Scary to think that my very own growing up years are not only forgotten – they aren’t even conceivable…
I always wonder how a person with no sense of history ropes themselves into career or job that, with a little research, could lead to answered question and, better yet, unanswered ones. Yet they are not really interested in the “whys” of events. One can look at a plaque or an historical marker and glean the “when” but maybe not the “why”. Were the circumstances because of a person’s own volition or was it exploration? This conversation was with someone who wanted answers by only looking at the surface. It is his loss and he probably doesn’t even know it. He is letting his history be forgotten day to day.