Someone once astutely suggested that when an old person dies, a library burns down. Knowledge that is acquired line upon line, pondered deeply, and wisely applied over an extended span of years is irreplaceably lost when the repository of that learning is gone from us. I'm sad to report that earlier this month a vast collection of knowledge, wonderfully organized, and expertly catalogued was lost with the death of Catharine Hauver Ahalt, one of the last surviving instructors that Sister Lindsay and I had as a teacher (Latin and history classes) during our high school days back in the early 1960s.
Catharine Hauver Ahalt was a local girl who was born, raised, and married in Myersville, on the western edge of Frederick County Maryland. She lived her entire life in this rural farming community. Her father and grandfather were both teachers, and it seemed natural that she would in turn follow them into the classroom. By the age of nine, Catharine's responsibilities included saddling a horse and riding to town for groceries and the mail. When she was just 16, her mother died; so she became the surrogate mother for her younger siblings while also helping her father in the home and on the farm. She was also riding the trolley into Frederick each day to attend classes at Hood College. Catharine Ahalt was a remarkable high school teacher for 37 years and also served as the postmistress in Myersville during World War II. She passed away on July 7th at the age of 100!
Saint Paul's Lutheran Church in Myersville
Attending the funeral service last weekend brought back a lot of childhood memories of people that I have known and loved who once lived in this quiet village but now rest in the cemeteries behind the Lutheran and Methodist Chuches. What a blessing it has been for me to have been allowed to grow to adulthood in such a peaceful community surrounded by so many wonderful individuals who helped to prepare me for life in a bigger and more complicated world.
Country Church
Yes, I
recall in my home town,
The belfry
bells and their sweet sound;
How folks
would come from miles around
To this
small church to pray.
The steeple
white was placed with care
Upon the
roof up in the air.
From far
away, you’d see it there.
The belfry
seemed to sway.
With tiny
plaques “In Memory Of,”
The stained
glass windows, gifts of love,
Let heaven’s
light in from above
How warm the
sunlight’s ray.
The choir
would practice Wednesday night.
Some sang
off key, but that’s all right.
My, how
they’d sing with all their might!
Their voices
trailed away.
The
minister, in robes of black,
His sermon
done, would stand in back,
And love
these people. That’s a fact.
Warm
greetings he would say.
The
congregation I knew then
Has gone out
back to meet again.
With marble
stones placed over them,
They’ve all
come here to stay.
I visit them
once in a while.
I read their
names; and then, I smile.
Each face
recalled from memory’s file;
And my love,
I convey.
This church
was built with loving care,
Constructed
both by work and prayer.
May they
find peace, who worshipped there,
On
resurrection day.
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