Later, I discovered that Grandmother Hine was partial to and fond of girls, which I am sure influenced Mom’s first reaction to our new baby boy. I did find it strange that Grandmother’s firstborn was a boy, Robert. Were they afraid of the male genitals? I really think my mother felt overwhelmed. Upon hearing the news, I danced around the dining room, my grandmother giggled, and we hugged each other. Off to bed. Sleeping with Grandma brought story after story until I fell asleep. It was always that way.

      August 1945 arrived. August was a big time for the church at large, with a ten-day conference and camp meeting for all the churches statewide convening on the campus and tabernacle in Frankfort, Indiana. There were scheduled sessions for church business, policy-making, and the election of next year’s leaders; dedications and baptisms of newborns; three church services a day with special speakers and singers; eating in the community dining room; and sleeping in simple cottages, rooms, dormitory-style quarters, and tents. Our arrangement was tight: a small room for the three of us and our new baby. My cousin Gloria and her parents—my mother’s sister Juanita and her husband, James Milford Burcham—had a cottage down the street from our crowded room. My mother always thought she was living “hind tit.” Now, whether we could not afford more, or wanted to conserve, I do not know. We called James Milford by his middle name, Milford, since my dad was first in the family, and he was James. Milford was also a minister in the district.

      I was Mommy’s little helper. The diapers were washed, so with three diapers in hand and five clothespins, I headed off for Aunt Juanita’s clothesline. Coming out of the building, I noticed a gathering of men working around the front. I passed a lady patrol person and spoke. As I was walking toward the cottage and looking back to watch what the men were doing, all of a sudden the world went black. I thought, “What has happened to the world?” I had fallen into an unattended open sewer. The next thing I remember was standing dripping wet at the hole. Hearing the splash, the men rushed to the hole; and when they saw my hair surfacing, they grabbed it and pulled me up. My head would hurt for years whenever my mother washed, brushed, curled, or combed my hair. It was discovered that I belonged to the minister and his wife, the ones with the new baby, who were staying in one of the nearby rooms. When my mother saw me standing in the doorway dripping wet, diapers in hand, with no clothespins and a half-dozen men, she screamed with fright. The campus nurse was called. The nurse immediately called the local doctor to visit. Fear engulfed the area—fear of cholera or typhoid fever. Both are infectious diseases caused by food or water that has been contaminated with human feces containing bacteria. Each is contracted by eating or drinking the bacteria in the contaminated food or water, which can result in fever, abdominal pain, headaches, vomiting, muscle cramps, and watery diarrhea. The diseases can be spread by a human carrier depositing bacteria in food or water. By the time the doctor arrived, the nurse and my mother had washed me from head to toe with hot, soapy water, and I was wrapped in warm, soft blankets. I sensed the doctor’s concern, and all I could think was, “My, oh, my, I have already given a neighborhood whooping cough. Am I going to give the camp cholera or typhoid fever?” The doctor gave me a shot, and as I fell asleep, I talked to Jesus. He was close by, still nestled in my heart. When I awakened, I was told that the whole camp knew about the incident and that they were praying for me; but I felt comforted because I had already talked to Jesus, who was residing in my heart. I recovered. No cholera or typhoid fever—just a tender skull. The incident was not forgotten. The church community remembered. I became known as “the girl who fell in the sewer.” For years, I would return to the Frankfort Camp in my finest apparel, clothes that my mother had made for the occasion and the coming year. But they didn’t see ME. They didn’t see my beautiful, neat clothes. They saw “the little girl who fell in the sewer.” I no longer felt a part of this church community. I was different. I was set apart. I felt pushed away.

      That evening, there it was: the moon. It hung, pale and mysterious, giving me light in my darkest hour. I tried to see the faces in the moon for myself, to feel its craters, and to experience its texture firsthand.

      The baby was well and happy.