Southern Porches

Growing up, I was fortunate to have had some wonderful teachers. A few were in the classroom, but most were in my family and on the mill village where I grew up. The person who stands out the most outside of relatives, is Mrs. Propst. She owned and ran the small neighborhood store that was across the street from our house. The store was in the front of the small building and her bedroom, kitchen, and sitting room was` attached. The bathroom was a free standing building outside. Her water came from a well and the iceman delivered frozen blocks that she used in the deep Coca Cola cooler to keep drinks icy cold.

She was an imposing looking woman with thick white hair that was swept up in a bun. She wore long dresses with cotton stockings and sensible shoes and like most older females, usually had on an apron. Her voice was very distinctive, it seemed to boom. She spoke very distinctly and correctly and when she talked, you listened. In her younger days, she had been a teacher, a postmistress, and someone said she had been a judge. She could have done all these things, she demanded respect and she got it from all who entered her small domain. I went there as a small child for penny candy, but came away with wonderful gifts and memories. In those days, you could get a small bag of candy for a nickel and I could always wheedle a few pennies from Papa, who take out his small leather change purse, dig out a few coins, and watch me cross the road to Propst Store.

Mrs. Propst took an interest in me and soon I was spending a lot of time in the small space. She would let me look through her photo albums and I was intrigued with the pictures of ladies with swept up hair in long dresses and fancy hats. When I started school, she was always interested in what I was learning. At report card time, she would give me a dime for every A. I am happy to say that I cleaned up. She had a set of small books about the presidents, Washington to Wilson. She sent me home with George and gave me a dime after I told her about what I had learned. One by one, I read the books and she shelled out the silver. It was my first job. I credit her with my love of reading. I discovered that I could go anywhere and do anything as I turned the pages.

Every afternoon Mrs. Propst would go outside, lean against her well, and count the cars on the train that ran behind the store. She kept a record on a small tablet that she pulled out of her apron pocket. When Sunday afternoons were warm, she would open the front door that went into her sitting room, and would play her pump organ as she sang hymns in her falsetto voice. Her songs seemed to drift up the street and we would take to the porch to listen.

When I was about ten, Mrs. Propst asked my mother if I could start going to church with her so I could help her navigate the stairs that led to the sanctuary. My grandmother said that it didn’t matter where I went to church, God was everywhere, and that’s how I became a Methodist. I grew up in that church, was baptized, and later married there.

Years quickly passed. Mrs. Propst re broke her hip and the store closed. She went to a nursing home and passed out of our lives, but she left a mark on my life. I will always be grateful that she took the time to give me so much.