Riverton Town Chronicles

When I was about two, we moved to Riverton, Georgia, where Dad accepted the assistant pastor’s position at Riverton Community Church. Only the good Lord knows what Mom and Dad saw in the sleepy little farm and textile mill town. Whoever came up with the phrase, “in the middle of nowhere,” must have been describing Riverton, Georgia. The town is located a few miles north of Dalton in northern Georgia, a few more miles south of the Tennessee state line.

I have my own theory as to why my parents have stayed in Riverton longer than any other place they have lived. The reason is quite simple. Having conceived children in every town they lived, they are more than a little gun shy about moving again. Therefore, their fourth move, wherever it might have been, would have looked awfully good. It just happened to be Riverton. If my hunch is correct, I suppose that we will stay here for a while—at least through Mom’s childbearing years. Come to think of it, with the Old Testament story of Abraham and Sara providing the inspiration for many of Dad’s sermons, we will probably live here forever. And that would suit me just fine. After all, we have a neat house, plenty of good friends, and as long as there are no more baby Thompsons, I’ll always have my own room.

While the assurance of having my own pad may be an ample reason for not wanting more brothers or sisters, it is not my main concern. Rather my primary reason has more to do with my parents’ embarrassing tradition of giving their offspring a thoroughly biblical name. Thus, each child in our family bears a name of an Old Testament and New Testament character. I shudder to think what would happen if our family grew much larger. I would likely have brothers branded throughout life with the likes of Titus Zechariah or Philemon Haggai or maybe a sister named Jezebel Magdalene. Even our household pets have not escaped the distinction of carrying biblical names. Our cat is Genny, for Genesis, and our lovable thoroughbred mongrel answers at least part of the time to Rev, which is short for Revelation. Suffice it to say, the salutation on our Christmas cards could easily be mistaken for the Table of Contents of the Holy Bible.

Among the members of Riverton Community Church are some of the town’s most prominent citizens. For instance, there is Henry Payne, a balding, chubby little man who owns Honest Henry’s Quality Pre-Owned Automobiles. Probably in his late fifties, Mr. Payne almost always has a cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth—off the church grounds of course, and only then when he remembers to remove it.

Our church can even boast of having its own local law enforcement representative. Fred Brewer, whose parents were charter members of the church, is one of Riverton’s two deputies. Tall, muscular, in his late twenties, and single, Deputy Fred is especially popular with the young ladies in town. In fact, the Times Weekly has recognized him, three years running, as Riverton’s Most Eligible Bachelor. It is really neat having an officer of the law attend church in uniform, complete with badge and pistol. Rev. Wickson appointed Fred as the head usher several years ago. I thought that his appointment was a real stroke of genius on the part of the deceased pastor. For those not moved to give by religious conviction or a cheerful spirit, having a man pass the plate with a gun strapped around his waist can’t hurt.

Through all of my almost nine years, I can honestly say I have genuinely enjoyed most church meetings and related functions. For the few things I don’t particularly care for, such as lengthy sermons, fasting, and twenty-four-hour prayer vigils, I learned at a very early age that I am much better off expressing my opinions on such matters to God rather than my parents. Honest questions have always been encouraged in our home, but woe is the child that voices criticism about anything concerning God, the Holy Bible, or the church. Incidentally, Andrew holds the family record for Most Ivory Soap Mouth Washings Resulting from Irreverent Remarks. The most memorable to date occurred a couple of years ago when, following a particularly lively Sunday evening service, Andrew ran in the house mocking, in impressive detail, Sister Sue Jordan, who had taken a major Holy Ghost shouting spell, right in the middle of Rev. Wickson’s sermon. I think Andrew blew bubbles every time he opened his mouth for the next three days.

But, if there is one tradition I could happily do without, and I fear I will get into deep trouble just for thinking this way, it is Sunday School. Even on this occasion, I could not get excited about going to Sister Hunter’s Junior Disciples Class, comprised of children from eight to twelve years of age. I had been promoted to her class (phrase used only in the technical sense) on the occasion of my eighth birthday last year. Since joining the class, we have done exactly the same thing the same way at precisely the same time every single week. Only the topics and the accompanying weekly lesson handouts changed. If anyone knew they had only a few hours to live, I would definitely recommend the unfortunate soul spend forty-five minutes of their precious remaining time in Sister Hunter’s class. Her classes seemed as if they lasted a lifetime.