Montebello and the First Baptist Church                 Richard Nichols July 19, 2011
revised April 2012
In 1940s Montebello's small town feel remained even as the region exploded in development and freeways after the war. Downtown LA was only 10 miles away. On the main business street full of little shops such as a shoe repair, five and dime, and clothing stores, Jack the barber cut my hair on Saturday, and I saw him at church the next day. The fire chief lived down the block and I played ball with his son on the church team. The compact town made it easy to walk to the movie house, the park, the drugstore fountain and the church. I walked to school and had a 5 cent soda after school at the drugstore. Hundreds of kids spent many summer days at the municipal plunge to escape the intense heat.  In the evenings the kids played hide and seek and capture the flag across the front yards of the old frame houses along 7th Street. I sold Haas avocados from our tree in the backyard  at 5 or 10 cents apiece  to the neighbors. One summer made $7. At one house a scantily clad young women answered the door, and of course, being a boy, I was intrigued. She bought an avocado, but I was more interested in what was almost revealed. When I was around 10, I pitched for the church youth softball team and could get strikeouts and infield grounders, but unfortunately the fielders couldn't hold on to a ball if you handed to them, so we lost most of the games. At one game, a parent from the other team harassed me to such an extent that I broke into tears after the game. Since then I've been very intolerant of bullying adults.
In the 1940s and 50's My parents attended Montebello Baptist Church. With over 1000 members, it was one of the largest Baptist Churches in Southern California. The big stucco building seated at least 800 people. The older cavernous church next door became a gym, meeting and banquet hall. I spent many squirmy Sunday mornings at service being bored by the carry on. Paster Rood was a charismatic, and handsome man, with a booming voice and charming presence. But sermons, scriptures, and singing did not hold the attention of a little kid. Boring! Everyone loved him, but he finally left and the church leaving a void that was never filled. He was so loved by the congregation that the new pastor could not fill his shoes.
My father served as deacon and usher, and my mother a deaconess. All of our family friends were members of the church. My first look at a TV was at the home of our close friends, the Shelley's. On several occasions Mr. and Mrs Owl, a very old and kind couple, took my father and I camping and fishing at beautiful Lake Henshaw.
My parents regularly volunteered at functions. My mother cooked, with other ladies, for the big annual Mens Banquet. One year, when I was about 6, my mother took me to the church and left me to find something to do while the ladies fried dozens of chickens. The smell of the cooking invaded my senses, wafting out the windows into the patio where I played, the concentrated smell of frying chicken skin overwhelming. I could not stand the smell of frying chicken for many years after that. My father took me to the banquet, and I thought I'd gag from the smell of the served up chicken. Even today, I avoid fried chicken.
Every year in the summer the potluck social convened at tree-filled Penn Park in Whittier. Several hundred dishes laid out on long tables tempted us to overeat.  Casseroles, jello desserts, (the kind with the floating blobs of marshmallow), cakes and pies and cookies filled the tables. If one kind of potato salad or macaroni didn't seem attractive, you could pick from ten others. After stuffing ourselves, the park afforded plenty of room to run and play. The little stream falling over rocks, a favorite place, invited us to scramble among the boulders and splash in the cool water.
My father worked in the tire recapping business for many years, but tired of the hard work and sought other employment. The church was big enough to hire a full time janitor, and my father got the job in the early 50s. He could walk to work, and work in the quiet environment of a church. On Saturdays I helped him make preparations for Sunday services. My favorite job was to hose down the sidewalks and porches around the church, and I had the run of the place, wandering through the many rooms and hidden alcoves. However, this ideal situation was not to last.
One Saturday, when I was about 12, I overheard a conversation between the President of the Board of Deacons (the church governing body) and my father. This happened in the big wood paneled foyer, as I lurked around the corner and up the balcony stairs. The voices echoed clearly in the vaulted room. The gist of the conversation was that my father was not a good Christian, was doing a poor job as janitor, and the Deacons had voted to fire my father. By that time my parents had been members of the church for at least 15 years and many of the deacons were close friends. This had a devastating effect on my parents. My father, broken hearted to lose so many friends, my mother angry, felt betrayed by their friends. The President, new to the church, had somehow persuaded the Deacons to turn on my father. I never did find out exactly why, but the result was that we left town and found another church. Several of the Deacons came to the house to offer a measly severance pay, but my mother would not let them in, and we never saw any of them again.
Although I have fond memories from being a part of the church community, as I grew older I saw the hypocrisy of the Sunday Christians, more fake than real, more about appearances then about living a life of peace, love, and understanding. It took me many years to get over the incident, feeling that my parents had been greatly wronged. For years I felt like going back to Montebello and burning down the church building. Time heals, and forgiveness is better than hate, and although all those old friends are gone, I still wish them peace.