Self-Restraint

I’ve been around religious folks all my life. My mother was a Methodist who attended the Trinity Methodist Church on Chesapeake City’s Bohemia Avenue. Services are still held in the beautiful church, which was constructed with stone at the end of the nineteenth century. The church has a belfry and a sexton who pulls the rope that rings the large bell, and as a boy I remember being alerted by the sound of the tolling bell on Sundays at 10 a.m. for Sunday school, and at 11a.m. for the adult service. My family lived on a small farm about a half mile from Chesapeake City. Echoing clearly across the field, the peal of the rhythmic chimes would always give me pause, stirring in me, somehow, a comforting feeling. And, sure, it tolled for me a lament on the occasional Sundays when I didn’t make it to Sunday school. On most Sundays, however, my mother took me in, making sure I wore shoes and a clean shirt.

I have a vivid memory of my first day in Sunday school; I was five years’ old. My first Sunday school teacher was impressive as well. His name was T. H. Johnston. His lesson was impressive because, even after seventy-eight years I’m still thinking, talking, and writing about its value. T.H. surely didn’t concern himself with self-restraint, because soon after I had entered the room, he wrestled me down to the floor and dragged me under the table amongst the dust bunnies. His sermon made up in physical dexterity for what it lacked in Spiritual refinement.  Yes, indeed, I learned to manipulate my jabbing elbows, knees, and feet almost as well as he did before his mother and mine broke it up. So, folks are stretching the truth when they say that a little religion won’t hurt, because I found out that it did. Even so, from that point on I understood why church going was so appealing, and that, dang gone, I was going to like it.

But that stimulating event is really not what I intended to tell you about . . . so don’t pay any attention to what I just wrote. In fact, clear it from your mind and be ready for the story I’m about to relate. Let me take you back to about the year 2005 with my friend, Walter Watson. I won’t keep you long.

I made friends with Walter after I became interested in the history of Chesapeake City and its canal. I would visit him at his home in town about once a week. He would let me copy his vintage pictures of the old town and canal. He was especially knowledgeable and articulate. He told stories about his escapades as a boy and young man. One of his reminiscences took place when he was eight years’ old. He explained that he was playing by the top, open window of Ralph Rees’ enormous granary that was built on pilings that extended into the canal. The building was located where the creamery is today (2019).

Well, Walter (he was 85 when he told me this) said that jumping and fooling around as kids will do, caused him to tumble through the open window and fall thirty feet into the canal. He fell head-first, hit the water, and submerged to the muddy bottom and got his head stuck in mud. Just his feet were sticking above the water as he struggled to free his head. Animated and shaking as he described the occurrence, he told me that, if it had not been for a worker who had seen him fall, he would have drowned.

Obviously I enjoyed my conversations with Walter very much. On every occurrence, he would work in his favorite little joke. It never failed that, as he spoke about quirky people and peculiar events from Chesapeake City’s past, at some point in my visit he would show and tell his favorite witticism. Grinning as he looked at me, he would raise his arm towards his face, with his thumb and forefinger held a half inch apart (as if to say “I missed it by this much”) he would declare, “My memory is only this long.” And, grinning, he’d deliver his zinger: “And that’s not the only thing that’s this long.” Even though I had heard the quip many, many times, I would smile and giggle acknowledgement. Then he would continue to show me pictures that would remind him of stories about the old canal and town.

At this point, patient reader, you’re probably wondering what all this has to do with self-restraint. Well, sit back and relax. Put your feet up, take a sip from your highball and brace yourself. I’m going to tell you. One Sunday, back when I had been visiting Walter frequently, my wife and I went to a service at Chesapeake City’s Trinity Methodist Church. At that time the minister happened to be a young lady. After her stimulating sermon, by chance my wife and I, the minister, and two other women were assembled in the small antechamber attached to the church proper.

Well, as we all chatted, Walter strode in and joined the conversation. We talked about the sermon and the beautiful church. Walter said that he remembered the church before the fellowship hall was built. Years ago, he explained, the lawn contained grave markers. Well, at this point my eyes got big and I steadied myself for what was to come. And, sure enough, Walter held out his hand with his thumb and forefinger a half-inch apart and, loud and clear, stated, “You know, my memory is only this long.”  Then he paused as I glanced at the preacher and my wife . . . but he didn’t deliver the punch line. Instead, he nodded to us and said, “Lovely day we’re having” and stepped out the door. Impressed (and relieved), I marveled at the self-restraint it must have taken to leave his favorite, oft-uttered punch line hanging in the air – squandered.