|
White Christmas in Barbados
It was the time of Cuba’s trouble. The ship Del Norte had to veer out of the way to avoid a gun boat from Cuba. We passed within forty miles of Dominica. I waved to the land mass as we passed. My college roommate, Elsie Conley was a missionary there, I wished I could see her. On our way to Brazil, our ship docked in Barbados the day before Christmas so we could spend Christmas Day on the beach. The Wolffe family traveling with us did, but since our church denomination had a national church on this island, we radioed ahead to see if we could stay with the Rev. and Mrs. Austin Miller. They had no children, so they were delighted to have company. Briefing us on the island, the ship purser said Barbados was one of the British West Indies Islands eleven miles wide with a breezy mean temperature of 78 degrees. It was virtually crime free. We crossed the gang plank to the dock while islanders played music on indented barrel tops. Rev. Miller picked us up in his car and took us on a tour of the island. Sugar cane grew everywhere. But the city of Bridgeport was bustling with excitement. We went to the largest department stores. How strange it seemed that almost everything was imported from England. It was hard to imagine living in a place where everything had to be imported. Rev. Miller said everyone wore hats to church on Christmas Day, so I kept trying to buy a straw one. He kept discouraging me for some strange reason. In the town square, fruits and vegetables were sold. One lady was balancing a large aluminum basin on her head. Milford asked her if he could take her picture. “No, I am too black,” she said. The people from the ship were probably the only white people on this island. On the way to his house, Rev. Miller took us to the home of a seamstress to get his wife’s Christmas dress. “Everyone wears white on Christmas Day in Barbados,” he explained, “This includes a white hat.” No wonder he didn’t want me to buy a straw work hat. Inside the seamstress’ house, the wind blew the foil icicles on the tree in the breeze. This was our first “hot Christmas.” We arrived at the Miller home to find Mrs. Miller cleaning. “It is a custom to clean and buy something new for our home at Christmas,” Mrs. Miller said. “I will help you,” I offered. “No, let me have my Christmas,” she retorted. The Miller’s house was a small but comfortable stone home. We went to bed in a room where the shutters on the windows were closed. A hose led from underneath the sink in the room and out the window through the slats in the shutters. At 4:00 A.M. the Millers came to wake us to get ready for early church services. It was all we could do to get up. Milford and I were asked to sit on the platform and participate in the service. Melodie and Melinda sat with Mrs. Miller in the front row. It was an awesome sight to look out over this crowd of totally black faces in white vestige. It was also embarrassing! Not only were we the only white people present but I was the only woman not wearing white. Milford and I were wearing navy blue. I guess you could say they were having a White Christmas and we were having a blue one. Milford and I both spoke a few words before Rev. Miller preached. When the worship service was over, the congregation, in their white attire, went to the park to sing Christmas carols for what Barbadians call their White Christmas. When the singing was over, we returned to the Miller’s home for roast chicken and rice embellished with dried peas and other small vegetables. In the afternoon the Millers gave us a tour of this island paradise then took us back to the ship to continue our journey. Santa had visited the Del Norte on Christmas Eve and left presents for the girls. The Wolffe family hadn’t fared quite as well as we had. They had gone to the beach only to find the island surrounded by coral, which made swimming and wading difficult. Our next port of call…Brazil! ©Marilyn Francis Ferguson 2025 Graphics by Michele Ferguson Schuck
0 Comments
 Photo: Philip D. Weiser and Wilma E. (Smith) Weiser Philip D. Weiser and the Office of Special Grants Philip Weiser was a special man. He taught me everything I know about politics….which is considerable. He was a storyteller and an iconoclast. In 1977, I got a job with the State of Ohio. Like all mothers, it was hard for me to go back to work because I had three teenage daughters and a four-year-old at home. Initially I worked for the Office of Manpower Development as a planner. I got the job because I could write and actually understand Federal Regulations….which nobody on earth can understand because they are written by many people and often contradictory. I worked there for three years before Phil Weiser saw me shopping at Eastland Mall. I was returning skates that my girls had received for Christmas. Phil was people watching while his wife shopped at Lazarus. He said I looked like a mother duck with my daughters all following along behind. Anyway, he was a people person and later asked me if I would come to work for him in the Office of Special Grants (as second in command). I decided to take him up on the offer. It was a fun ride in more ways than one. We had board meetings in the conference room once a month and sometimes when they were over, the dining room was closed. There were no food vendors nearby. Phil and one of my co-workers, Don Kauffman, would jump in Phil’s car and go to lunch. I was left out in the cold with no lunch. Phil had an old Chevy that he drove from Heath/Newark, Ohio every day. He never washed it and let the dirt accumulate on the back license plate. The numbers couldn’t even be seen and that was purposeful. Anyway, I got tired of these guys ignoring me so after a board meeting one morning, I decided to remedy this situation. I went out to my boss’s car and said, “I have decided to go to lunch with you guys today.” I got in the back seat before they could get in the front seat. It was a huge mistake! When I sat down I realized that I had dirt from the back seat all over the back my white blouse and navy skirt. As we drove off, the two men started laughing. Phil said, “I drive my car on weekends with the windows down and my dog is the only one that rides in the back seat”. We arrived at Wendy’s for lunch. When we got out of the car, the two men started to brush me off so we wouldn’t be embarrassed when they realized they couldn’t do that and besides people were looking at us. We had a very dusty lunch. I never did that again. I’m sure that Phil Weiser told that story over and over and is in heaven still laughing about it today. P.S. – The stories of Phil and Don don't end here. To read more, visit their Find a Grave pages below: Philip Dean Weiser Donald Stanford Kauffman ©Marilyn Francis Ferguson 2025 Graphics by Michele Ferguson Schuck Back Row L-R: Billy Rudd, Jeff Murphy, oldest daughter of Jose Belarmino, Melinda Ferguson.
Front Row L-R: Belarmino twins, Michele Ferguson, neighbor Ieda. New Year’s Eve at the Brazilian Chapel Church Rudolfo Friesen was the pastor of the Chapel Church when we first went to Londrina, Brazil. His wife Raquel and children, Raquelzinha (little Raquel) and Juninho (little Junior), became good friends of mine. They lived on the seminary compound. Pastor Rudolfo was also the seminary Dean of Men. We became good friends because we were about the same age and had small children about the same age. Raquelzinha was Melodie’s age. When we first moved on campus, Manuel, the seminary handyman, drove Melodie and Raquelzinha in the “Kombi” (Volkswagen bus) to Jardim Infancia (kindergarten). It was really good for Melodie to be with Portuguese-speaking kids, because she picked it up immediately. For whatever reason, unknown to me, Rudolfo left the chapel pastorate and Dean’s job to preach elsewhere. I was asked to head up his farewell party. Because I am American, I planned a party with games, as I would have in the States. However, it was not the kind of party one puts on in Brazil for a farewell. We had games and refreshments on the seminary lawn with students, churchgoers, and town folk attending. It was not the solemn occasion that everyone expected. Essentially, I messed up, but the good news is that everyone had a wonderful time and probably still remembers the party today. : ) You know, you live and learn, sometimes the hard way. Jose Belarmino became the new pastor of the Chapel Church. He was a kind, tall, thin, black man who attended classes at night in the Seminary’s Bible Institute. He worked in town and never served as the Dean of Men. He had several children, two of which were twin girls. They were somewhat younger than my daughters, so when my girls outgrew their clothes, I gave them to Jose for his daughters. Because Brazil, where we lived, is cold in the winter, my girls wore American Sears pajamas with feet in them. When they got too big for them, we cut the feet off. In the end, the only things that were wearable were the tops. I gave them to Jose for his girls. I was surprised when they showed up in church the next Sunday wearing those floral-patterned pajama tops. Milford was usually off on evangelistic preaching or singing treks, so the girls and I attended the seminary Chapel Church on the mission compound. I taught the women’s class and later a children's class at the Chapel Church most of the time we were in Brazil. In our last term there, we decided to have a Watch Night Prayer Service on New Year’s Eve. We were going to pray the whole night at the Chapel Church. Pastor Jose led the service, and I was to provide snacks for the break in the middle of the night. I don’t know why I didn’t have this group in my house (on the seminary campus) for refreshments or even in the seminary cafeteria. We prayed until four o’clock in the morning but couldn’t stay awake to pray any longer. I am a morning person, so I was fairly miserable when we decided to give it up. When we left Brazil for the last time, Pastor Jose came to our house to say goodbye. He quoted Psalm 133:1: “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!” And he cried. Today, when I think of New Year’s Eve, I always remember the time I spent praying with Pastor Jose and the Brazilians in the Chapel Church. Everyone should be so blessed! Happy New Year! ©Marilyn Francis Ferguson 2023 Graphics by Michele Ferguson Schuck Photo credit: George Bailey
Déjà Vu at a Country Church For several years, our photographer friend, George Bailey from Florida, has visited us to capture the beauty of Ohio's Hocking Hills in the fall. Sometime before his visit in 2003, I learned that my father's earliest known ancestors were buried in a cemetery that is across the road from the Pike Run Church of Church of Christ in Christian Union. The church is located near Tar Hallow State Park in Vinton County. Since we were in the area, we decided to take a side trip to find and photograph their tombstones. After arriving at the beautiful, country cemetery, we readily found the tombstones of my GGGreat Grandparents, as well as those of numerous other relatives. A little church and a newer cemetery stood on a hill across the road. Our photographer friend wanted photos of the church. Going up the hill, I kept repeating, “I feel like I have been here before." Once on top, everything looked familiar to me. The maple tree in the front, the windows, even the front door seemed as though I had seen them before. I looked inside to see that it was different than I had expected, but beautiful. It was then that I realized I had been there before. When I attended Circleville Bible College, Norval Shepherd, a classmate of mine pastored this little church. One evening, he was unable to go and asked if I would go with his wife Shirley and speak for him. I never turned down speaking engagements, so I went. It was a quaint, little church with wallpaper on the inside. Besides the pastor's wife, two older people came. During my message, the man got up and went outside. I was standing at the pulpit and could see him, through the windows as he walked around the grounds. I continued speaking and the woman, that I supposed to be his wife, went to sleep. The end result was that I gave a salvation message to Shirley, the pastor's wife. Since I was young and inexperienced, it was disconcerting to me. Years later, I found it to be funny and told that story many times as an icebreaker when I spoke. I hadn't remembered the name of the church. In going there in search of my ancestors’ tombstones, I was surprised when I realized that it was the same little, country church where I had spoken some forty years earlier. ©Marilyn Francis Ferguson 2023 Graphics by Michele Ferguson Schuck |
Marilyn Francis FergusonGrowing up in Williamsport, Ohio is a blog by Marilyn Francis Ferguson which describes small town life in the 1940s and 1950s. Blog Categories
All
Archives
December 2025
|