Prelude To a Con - Part 1A

Fire in the Holy: the Original Sin

Today’s story starts with a fire that leads to a theft.

The Backdrop

At the heart of our town sits a beautiful reddish brick church with majestic stained glass windows and a small grilled steeple that houses the carillons. They are digital now, but back in 1979, where our story begins, a parishioner would have played them manually on a keyboard.

To the East is the elementary school and high school -- Go Greyhounds! -- to the West is the church park and to the South is the parsonage. I have many happy memories from our school and church, and some very tragic ones.

The church is almost an exact replica of the one that had been there since the 1950s -- built with the same red brick, topped off with heavy timber trusses, cut from old growth Douglas fir trees supporting the vaulted ceiling. The internal walls were covered in old-school plaster, the kind skilled craftsman made from quick-lime, troweled up and left to dry for a few months before painting (No drywall allowed here!). This fact will be important as you will see later.

Here is the church in 1963.

Newspaper article, Wed August 7, 1963

And here is the last picture I have of the church from April 2021. That’s my Grandmother on the left being escorted in for Sunday service. She was 92.

Image from Author archives

I did not know then that would turn out to be one of the last times we would see each other. At least in this life.

My Grandfather and Grandmother were my first and greatest heroes. They showed me how to be kind, to enjoy the small things in life but to think big. My Grandfather also taught me to keep my eyes open because, like Yogi Berra said, you can observe a lot just by watching. He also taught me how to count, organize and stack 25 lb feed bags, which probably weighed more than me at the time.

There are large gaps in my memory from when I was young (more on that in later episodes), though I can still remember running over to their house as soon as I was big enough to run, and going there during lunch breaks and after school. I also didn’t know at the time that their home was a sanctuary, protecting me from the darkness lingering at my own actual home.

Speaking of sanctuaries, back to the story.

A Church on Fire

It’s Friday, January 12, 1979 at midnight, so in other words it really felt like Friday the 13th. Just sayin’. The town was being hit by a fierce blizzard. The pastor calls the fire department and a few congregation members nearby. Others are pulling up to the blaze. The fire department arrives but is unable to fight the fire. There was a
freeze-up. The pump water was frozen. The pastor recalls shocked faces, ash filled tears and feeling helpless. By morning, the church was gone, burned to the ground.

I was 1 ^3/4 years old at the time . . . and adorable.

Here is a newspaper article from the Sunday after the fire.

Hansford Plainsman, January 14, 1979

The text reads:

“A savage fire of undetermined origin [aka “for some reason” - ed] has totally destroyed the First United Methodist Church in [my town]. The fire was reported around midnight Friday and according to . . . Police Chief Jimmy Ratliff broke out in the sanctuary of the Church. Ratliff told the Plainsman that early damage estimates were in the vicinity of $1 Million dollars.

Fire fighters were hampered because of the blizzard conditions, and freezing water. Fire trucks responded from Spearman, however one unit became stranded in the drifting snow en route to the blaze. Fireman did save surrounding homes however after it became evident that the Church was gutted. The Rev. Mr. Tom Fuller is the pastor of the First United Methodist Church. Fire fighters are to be commended for their valiant efforts in weather where the Chill factor registered -40 degrees! “ [Emphasis added]

Jeepers, 40 degrees below zero? Totally wouldn’t want to be a brass monkey fighting that fire, is all I can say. Well, that’s not true. I can say a lot more. So I will.

Houses of the Holy

We have many churches in Hansford and surrounding counties, e.g., Methodist, Baptist, a few Catholic ones, no Mormons that I can think of. But we do have Mennonites.

One thing these churches have in common is that five or more generations will have passed through the same church doors. On any given Sunday, you will probably find two or three generations all sitting together.

For me, this church was Ground Zero for watching my mom’s reactions and how they were exactly opposite of every other person in attendance -- whether for weddings, funerals or regular Sunday services. And, even though most of my extended family sat on the right side, my mom insisted on sitting on the left.

My Grandfather died in March 1986 at the age of 60. He was one of the great men of Hansford county. He died on a Thursday, in the afternoon, and the funeral was held improbably quickly on Saturday morning, i.e., less than 48 hours later. That fact, alone, is suspicious, but there’s more to come on that subject.

Anyway, it is the church during this funeral in March 1986 where I felt she was most happy, and yet also terrified. We were all agonizing over my Grandfather’s shock death at 60. It was standing room only, and everyone was crying, every age, even the pastors’ voices were cracking. I was devastated, and lay down with my head in my mom’s lap, sobbing. My mom, Hannibal, sat motionless, as if to not attract attention or wondering if folks were looking at her, mentally pointing fingers with their inside voices.

I looked up at her and I saw her eyes dancing and ends of her lips forming a slight smirk, as much as she tried to hide it. Given my vantage point, I could see it. No one else could. Oh yeah, she was completely annoyed that I could not hold myself up and that I was devastated and sobbing. I sobbed for days. That must have really annoyed her.

Prologue to Part 2

The church was rebuilt in about 18 months. Here is the dedication announcement.

Town leaders got together to finance and rebuild a new church. My Grandmother and her friends needlepointed altar cushions, with sweet messages. They are still there now and are stunningly intricate.

An entry plaque recognizes the individuals on the church rebuilding committee.
My Grandfather’s name is on the that plaque, along with a few other men. Most were the good and great of Hansford county.

One name in particular, though, is different. I believe that person was the leader of the con and was sent to our town to implement it, and the church fire was the distraction to get people to lower their collective guard and work together. Proximity, after all, is an important key for any conman and/or psychopath to unlock the door to grift.

From birth until 1990, when we moved to Amarillo (to be covered in an upcoming episode entitled “Is This the Way to Amarillo?”), I spent almost every Sunday, Wednesday afternoon, Easter and Christmas Eve at our church. I have always felt safe there, somewhat protected. It’s in the sanctuary where the fire started, and the church was to me another sanctuary where I would sit with my Grandfather and he would remind me “you listen to every word that is said during the sermon. Then you watch how others in the congregation behave throughout the week, with the same words you heard. Let me know if anyone gets out of line.” Occasionally he would nod his head to someone he particularly wanted me to observe.

Epilogue -- The Hand of God

The fire in January 1979 burned down the entire church, save two items.

As the pastor waded through the ash of what was the sanctuary, he found the altar cross completely unharmed. The altar cross remains there today. As he continued to the western wing of the church, he came to a small group of ladies gathered in a circle. They were surrounding the nursery rocking chair, where matrons would nurse newborn babies. It was intact and unscathed from the fire. The ladies were speechless.

Next up. Why I don’t believe the fire was an accident.