It is gone. The little roadside chapel of my youth. For more than 120 years it stood by the rambling creek, the Sunday morning gathering place of the farm families that lived in its vicinity. In its early days it was the center of social activity in the surrounding rural area. There were chicken suppers and ice cream socials, Easter and Christmas “programs” when the youngsters did recitations and raised their pure, sweet voices in loud (and sometimes discordant) celebration. For all those years, and four generations of my family, the old Seth Thomas clock ticked away the moments, as itinerant preachers offered up sermons based on the tenets of the Methodist Church. It seemed it would be there always, this cornerstone of my childhood, where the moral values instilled by my parents were reinforced and my faith in a higher power came to be. It is gone. Fallen to the relentless forward march of time. Through a veil of tears I pictured, still, my parents and their friends passing the time of day on the front steps. Surely this spot is hallowed for all time, caught forever in the memories of those of us who were fortunate enough to be a part of Nigh Chapel.
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