Having God on my Shoulder (c) Nita Walker Boles

That I had a personality, a thought-producing id that accounted for who I was from the earliest time I have memory is a truth.  The question of where I came from seemed obvious, since my mother took us to church where we were instructed about all things to do with God.  However, the fact of His existence seemed independent of any teaching and evident in everything in the world surrounding me.

Every Sunday we were dressed in lovely clothing made by our mother and our hair curled neatly and bangs cut in a crisp little line well above the eyebrows.  We were ushered into the big sanctuary of the church we attended in Denver, where singing an preaching filled an hour or so, and then we retired to our classes for Sunday School.

Mr. and Mrs Sommers were the first Sunday School teachers I ever had, and the only ones whose names I specifically remember. The rest were a blur of nice, smiling faces, eager to tell us a Bible story and sometimes give us a little booklet to take  home with illustrations and the story of our character from the Bible in it..

From Mr. & Mrs Sommers I learned to sing "Yes, Jesus Loves Me" and "Jesus wants me for a Sunbeam".  We were little Sunbeams, no one older than 3 in that class.  I don't remember the specific stories they told, but I remember knowing because of what they had told me, and what I felt in my heart as I heard it, that Jesus really did love me, and God loved me as well.  God seemed far above Jesus, who was far above us, and the Son of God. He died, they said, for us, but was raised from the dead to save us. One Sunday as we lined up to follow our teachers back to the classroom I stood in the light from a golden stained-glass window and felt as though Heaven was smiling down on me. I knew that Heavenly Father and Jesus loved me.

If it hadn't been true, I would have known it.  I always knew what was true.  When I didn't know whether or not something was true, I just let it percolate and studied it a while before coming to a conclusion. That we studied stories of children, like us, helped us understand that you didn't have to wait until you were a grown up to be important to God and Jesus.  When my Sunday School teacher told us the story of Joseph and the Coat of Many Colors, I then went home to read the real story from the Bible. Then I had to find out who Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were and why their stories were important to  us. To me it was obvious. We were the same as them to God. We could walk and talk with Him and were instructed to do so.

I learned to read as early as I could so I could read the Bible and learn from it. Although I never knew my great grandmother, a Quaker, I suspect she is the reason my father seldom missed a day without studying from the Bible. Since it was important to him, I knew it must be to me, so I too read nearly every day.  For that reason, my language has nearly always been on the upper end of above average.  I don't remember any other Bible available to us than the one my brother now has, the Family Bible, bought from  the Door to Door Salesman.  I vaguely remember our father anxious to get it quickly, and once it was in his hands his smile of satisfaction was a sermon delivered.  There was certainly another Bible in the house, because the older children remember him as we, the younger half of the family do, looking up at them over the Bible as they came home from school every day. He did not attend church unless company came  (his father-in-law, the preacher).

Our Mother took us to church but her quiet dignity was her sermon to us. It was understood you knew and kept the commandments, and that you followed Jesus.  Her father, our grandfather, delivered sermons straight from the Bible. He did not vary from its' message. On  his wall was a little plaque that read,  "Lord fill my mouth with worthwhile stuff and nudge me when I've said enough."  He seemed willing to abide by that admonition. I never remember a hell-fire and damnation sermon during the summers I spent at Grandma and Grandaddy's when in my early teens. However, I don't specifically remember any of  his sermons, although I can tell you I was listening intently.They were generally instructions on how we ought to live our lives to be like the Savior.

Back at  home, by the time I was five I was plenty scared of Hell, that is h-e-double toothpick HELL. We were reminded of the devil and hell on a regular basis, and the fear of going there was more of a concern than it should have been. When the invitation to come forward for profession of faith, at 5 I was determined never to go to hell. The assistant pastor was quite rattled when I told him I was ready to be baptized. He knelt down and said, kindly, "Do  you know the 23d Psalm?" I answered no.  He told me that when I could repeat it to him I could be baptized.  He didn't know me well at all. I could read, and I could memorize, and about 6 weeks later he had to baptize me. They should have been ashamed of themselves! I  hope they had a meeting about baptizing little children who are far too young to even understand sin, and especially about topics for sermons other than scaring the be-Jesus out of everyone there.  I refer you to the sidebar for a taste of preaching from   "Cold Comfort Farm".   I am not sure my father knew anything about my being baptized. He would have put a stop to it if he had known. Now, my sister, at 8 was probably old enough, and may have been baptized around the same time, I just don't remember.

In any case, my father's no-nonsense teaching in our everyday lives was more influential in my understanding of God than  any preacher.  When I was appalled at about age 6 at the teaching that those who died without Christ, never having heard the gospel would be damned, I asked my father whether God was really that mean.  He tenderly denounced the idea. He quoted the Savior saying, "Ye shall know the Truth and the Truth shall make you free."  He said God was blamed for a lot of things He never did. I can remember the light of day coming through our living room windows, and the sound of his words, and the certainty that he was right.  From that moment forward I knew I was free to know for myself what was true.

So with all the riches of life around me I set out in life with the certainty that God was right over my shoulder, ready and willing to give me direction as needed.  With beautiful mountains surrounding us, where rocks and streams testified of His goodness, with museums and zoos cataloging all His creations, and with books from the library spilling over with knowledge we could apply, what was there not to love about life? Our half of the family was together, for a time,  in a Land of Milk and Honey. 

I Wash Dishes the Way I Do Because I Was A Girl Scout (c) Nita Walker Boles

Starting with the trip to Supreme Bakers in Denver, Colorado, I knew my life was going to be more enchanted because of the Girl Scouts of America.  Remember that special moment when the tube that dispensed the creme filling for wafer bars was plugged, and the operator who was trying to get it going again got a face full? That was when I knew that fun and serendipity would always grace my path if I stuck close to the Girl Scouts of America.

As a Brownie, nothing could compare with dressing in the uniform that made all small girls look like, well, Brownies. The cap that topped our heads made us look like little acorns. We were irresistible sellers of Girl Scout Cookies, and we had been to the bakery where they were made, so could testify that they were the best of the best.  Living on Capital Hill made selling the delicious treats both daunting and successful. The blocks surrounding our home were made up of a variety of cottages and bungalows.

But at least one of my class mates arranged for us to visit his grandparent's nearby home, the Hull Mansion to see their private collection of American Indian artifacts. In that area lived people whose mansions took up whole city blocks. Passing the classic Victorian iron fencing and approaching the open gates where hitching posts still stood, a very small Brownie would have to work up the courage to walk the pathway toward the gigantic home, climb the large steps, and use the door knocker that sometimes looked like a gargoyle, or, if lucky, push the doorbell to hear a sort of song rung out in chimes.

Invariably a butler or maid would come to the door, and occasionally they would usher a stooped, smiling grandmotherly lady to the door upon our asking, "Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?"  The answer was always yes. And the quantity was nearly always just one.  Now, ponder the number of Brownies and Girl Scouts that attended at the elementary school just 3 blocks away, and imagine how many either worked up courage, or were cleaver enough to realize that gated homes housed wealthy people. Further, imagine all the hired help going home with boxes of Girl Scout cookies once they were delivered, and the cups of coffee and tea  served with Sugar Cookies and Thin Mints from polished silver platters.

From courage to enter uncharted territory to salesmanship and dressing for the occasion, the lessons taught while earning Brownie Stars and Merit Badges were so very valuable. So waiting to get bigger and  older was exciting as we contemplated the day we would be true Girl Scouts. Then we would wear the green uniforms our big sisters wore to their meetings and would be able to attend Girl Scout Camp.

Soon after  moving to Pueblo I was a Girl Scout. The first thing I leaned was how to tie a square knot, necessary to properly apply the neckerchief we all wore. Left over right and right over left. The Beanie was traded for a Barret, and we were smartly uniformed young ladies.  Girls whose fathers worked in the steel mills were dressed just the same as girls whose fathers worked in the bank. The leaders who ensured we were all welcome tapped the resources found in the careers and experiences of  Post-War working mothers. In the tight economy of the early 1960's nearly everyone's mother did some part time work.

My mother sold china and silver from an off-shoot of Sara Coventry Jewelry, The Nobility Club. Under her tutelage we learned to set a perfect table, naming each piece of silver service and its use. Maria Cosar's mother was a nurse, and from her we learned to make a perfect bed, using squared corners and properly placing pillows within their cases, the ends folded in. The merit badges increased in numbers on our sashes as our self-confidence grew. We sold our lots of Girl Scout Cookies, experienced in our trade, and with all of respected society standing behind us.  So we were ready and able to go to Girl Scout Camp, our cookies having paved the way so that no girl was left behind.

As close as we lived to the Sangre de Christo Mountain Range, our various families had all made the rivers and streams a part of life. But many of us had not camped in the mountains. The Girl Scout Camp was several days, if not a full week long. We slept either in cabins or in the tents built over wooden floors and frames, depending on the years of experience we had.  Every day a new skill was demonstrated so we could practice and learn ourselves how to do such things as starting a fire or properly using a pocket knife.

During one such exercise one of  my favorite friends, Sally,  was standing beside me with a stick she had carefully whittled to a sharp point. We were at the railing outside the lodge overlooking the sweeping mountain view and she leaned over, the stick in her  mouth, point end in. To my horror, she slipped forward and the stick became lodged in her palate. She had to be transported to the hospital an hour or more away. Girl Scout Camp was a nice place to be that year, but our hearts were heavy as we thought of Sally, who couldn't share our experiences. We asked about her often. Late in the week we were grateful to have the official word she would be just fine.

When we weren't learning new skills, we were taking turns with kitchen duty. It was there that I leaned the proper way to wash dishes. Dishes were gathered, organized, and scraped clean of garbage. Before they could be washed they were first rinsed free of debris, and then glasses, plates, and silverware were washed in that order. If the dishwater became cold or murky looking it was drained and changed for fresh soapy water. The dishes were rinsed in clear hot water with a certain measurement of bleach, and allowed to drain  before putting away after a light wipe with a clean towel to ensure they were dry.

At home we followed the same procedure, and thought everyone else did as well.  As my circles of friendship widened it became apparent that not everyone used the same method, and what seemed very dirty to me was quite acceptable to others.  The great work of comparing what is "done" and deciding what you would keep as a good habit began with those days.  Friendships were formed that are still fondly remembered.

Eventually Junior High School overtook us and after the first year most of us were so busy with school activities that we left our uniforms and sashes behind for other uniforms like Pep Club and Band. We were prepared in so many ways for a happy, can-do attitude in life, thanks to Girl Scouts. For me, I kept those ways, those experiences, and used them all m life.