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In 1963 my father, the late Hal Lane, resigned from his job as a flight line inspector at Douglas
Aircraft in Tulsa, Oklahoma to accept a job as an exhibits designer at Silver Dollar City in Branson,
Missouri. I was only 7 years old and entering the second grade at the time.

Now the community of Branson was much different in those days than it is now. The
demographics still reflected a very genuine hybrid of western pioneer & mountain hillbilly lifestyles. I
personally knew the son of Uncle Ike Morril, who was the Shepherd of the Hills, the Baldknobbers kept
the peace of the community and were my real live neighbors, and I knew every inch of Silver Dollar City
like the back of my hand. Once one was a mile outside the downtown area there was not much to do
besides enjoy the scenery and hiking trails, meet a few country folks and set fer a spell while grandma
rustled up some grub to show her appreciation fer the visit.

I was still young enough when we moved from Tulsa to Branson that I hardly noticed the
adjustment to the new surroundings. However, my oldest brother was just entering high school that year,
and he experience something of an identity crisis in making the change from being a BMOC at Bell Junior
High to having to carve a niche for himself among the local clique at Branson High. My older brother,
the middle of three, also had some adjustment problems.

In 1972 my father accepted another job as the Artist / Historian for the Arkansas State Parks
Department, where he worked to develop the interpretive display department and established a system of
hand-carved entrance signs for the parks. At that time we moved to Petit Jean Mountain near Morrilton,
Arkansas, which is where I spent my high school days.

My mother, the late Mary Lane, had graduated from the School of the Ozarks (College of the
Ozarks) at Point Lookout, Missouri with a degree in education but decided that she was too old fashioned
to participate in many of the new educational agendas being promoted in public schools, so she decided
to devote her time to writing childrens short stories.

This short story, Bill Makes His Mark, was written in
the early 1970s and reflects something of the experience my
brothers, primarily the oldest one, went through when we first
moved away from the big city of Tulsa to the small, close-knit
community of Branson. Not everything here is true to life, but
I think she did a good job of capturing the essence of a young
boys struggle to fit in. I hope you enjoy the reading, and you
are welcomed to share this with any young folks who might
see a bit of themselves in the characters.

God Bless You.
Sincerely in Christ,

G. A. Lane (Andy)




Mary Joan Lane 1929 - 1994
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Bill Makes
His Mark

A Short Story By
Mary Joan Lane

Copyright 1993 by G. A. Lane.
MXMIII. All rights reserved.

Digital Format Published by the
Foundation for the Advancement of Studies in the
Arts, Sciences, and Humanities
Tulsa, Oklahoma




The New Home

Bill Rogers sat on the porch of the small weathered cabin he and his mother had moved into.
The cabin was built by his grandfather in the nineteen-thirties when times were hard. Bill had
visited here several times when his grandparents were alive. He never thought he would have to
live in the cabin. But now his world had turned upside down. His folks had decided to sell their
home in the city and move to the eighty acres his grandfather had left them when he died.
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Bill was twelve that summer and it was to have been the best of years for him. He had
always lived in the same house, gone to the same school, and he had his own special group of
friends. He had already enrolled in Alexander Graham Bell Junior High School and shared many
classes with his best friend, Mike. He was to play his trumpet in the school band and be on the
softball team. He had already met once with the Junior Science Club.

Now, here he was, sitting on the porch of a run-down old cabin. Bill was heartbroken. He
shook his long blond hair out of his eyes. "I'll bet that nobody up here even wears long hair.
They're probably all a bunch of squares," he thought to himself. Bill had not met any of the other
boys in his new home. He took his scout knife from his pocket. It was his pride and joy. His father
had given it to him on their first camp out. "They probably don't even have a scout troop out here
in the country," he said in a quiet tone of voice.

Bill flicked open the knife and began to stick it into the dirt at his feet. A large, black beetle
ambled along on the ground. Bill aimed at the beetle. CHUNK! His aim was a little off and he
missed. The beetle slowly plodded along its way, unaware that it had been a target. Bill stood up
and retrieved the knife. He snapped it shut and stared down the dusty lane. Someone was driving
in.

An old, red truck rattled to a stop. "Hello young man. I'm Brother Woodstock." The
young man stepped down from the truck and extended his hand in a friendly greeting. "I heard we
had some new neighbors. I came to welcome you and invite you to visit our community church. We
meet in the old school about a half-mile over that rise. I'm the pastor. Are your folks here?"

Bill had never seen such a young preacher, especially one that came calling in an old truck
and wearing blue jeans. Bill liked Brother Woodstock instantly He shook hands and said, "No, my
folks aren't here right now. My mom has gone into town, and my dad is still back home trying to
sell our house. I'm Bill Rogers." They talked for a few minutes then the young man left, saying,
"We will see you Sunday morning, Bill."


* * * *



This Can't Be The Church

Sunday morning Bill dressed for church. He put on his blue Sunday School suit, giving his
gold attendance pin a little shine. Bill was in the Junior Choir and was leader of his youth group.
He had not missed a day at church for over two years. That is what the pin said, "Two Years
Perfect Attendance."

"This can't be the church," Bill gasped as he and his mother drove up outside the old, frame
building. It was the oldest, most run-down building that Bill had ever seen. The inside was not
much better. In the middle of the room was a big, black, pot-bellied stove. There were seven rows
of plain wooden benches on either side. A pulpit made from a section of a huge tree trunk that had
been sawed at an angle to make a reading surface stood at the front of the room. There were no
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stained glassed windows. There was no organ or even a choir section. But the church was full.
Every bench in the church was occupied except the back one. Bill and his mother slipped into the
empty space.

Brother Woodstock, it turned out, was a college student during the week and had two
churches he preached at on the weekends. Bill decided that he was one of the most interesting
preachers he had ever heard. When it came time to sing, the church was filled with music. Even
though there was no organ, the people sang and sang.

When the service was over, Brother Woodstock asked several people to stay for a while.
The Building Committee, he called them. Bill wondered why they needed a Building Committee
when all they had was an old shack. "Maybe he should have said, 'Shack Committee', " Bill
thought. Brother Woodstock came over and asked Bill's mother to join them. Bill was left sitting
on the back church pew.

Some of the young people approached him. A pretty, dark-haired girl smiled at him and
said, "Hi, I'm Jenny Orr. Were glad to have you here, Bill. This is Paul Wilson." Paul was dressed
in new blue jeans and a bright, blue checkered shirt. "Can you imagine that, wearing blue jeans to
church," Bill thought. But he took Paul's hand and said, "Glad to meet'cha." The young people
chatted for a while, and as they were leaving Jenny called back to Bill, "I guess you'll be going to
Oak Grove School. We'll see you on the bus tomorrow."

Bill was left alone in the church thinking what a silly name for a school, "Oak Grove." His
mother had taken him to the school the Friday before to enroll. It was a modern, concrete block
schoolhouse. When the state consolidated the schools, the old, one-room school had been
discontinued. The old building was given to the church. Now Oak Grove, the new consolidated
school, had classes for the first through the eighth grade. Instead of being in junior high school as
he had planned, Bill would be in the next-to-the-last grade in a school with all the little kids. Tears
started in his eyes. He had not cried in many years and felt that he was a baby for doing so now.
He dashed his sleeve across his eyes and reached for his pocket knife.

He flicked the blade open and began to clean his fingernails. Then he ran the blade across
the bright, golden hairs on he back of his hand. "I'll bet I could shave with this if I had to." He sat
waiting for his mother, thinking how unfair everything was. Idly, he brought the knife blade across
the board he was sitting on. A bright red, fragrant curl of wood fell to the floor. "It's cedar," Bill
exclaimed! He made another cut. The wood opened up like a gash. The pew lay there wounded
and gaping. Bill continued to carve the wood. In a panic, he snapped the knife shut. There, on the
very back pew in the little community church was the word, "HELL."

Bill was terrified. Never in his life had he done anything like this. He rubbed the cut with
his hand, knowing that it would not rub off, but hoping for a miracle. He brushed the shavings into
his hand and hid them in his pocket with his knife. At that moment, his mother and Brother
Woodstock came back into the church. They came over to Bill. He thought that they could not help
but see the word emblazoned on the pew or smell the sweet cedar, so Bill sat down and covered up
the word.

"Well Bill, we have a big project before us," said Brother Woodstock. "We have set
Christmas as our goal to completely restore our church. We plan to paint, put on a new roof, and
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renew the whole inside of the building." Bill sighed. "Are we going to get new pews?" he asked
hopefully. "Oh no," replied Brother Woodstock. "Even if we could afford to, we wouldn't replace
these pews. They are over a hundred years old and are as sturdy as the day they were made.
There is quite a story about these pews. They were a gift of love to the church from an old settler
who lost a leg in the Civil War. They have been with us since the days when the church was in a log
cabin. No, the pews stay, but we are expecting a lot of help with the painting and fixing up from the
youngsters."
Egad!

* * * *
The Cover Up

The next Sunday morning Bill got up early and dressed for church. He was out of the house
by the time his mother got up. He just had to be the first person in the church. He took off through
the woods, snagging his Sunday suit on the green briars. As he entered the empty building, he
fancied that he could smell fresh cedar. Bill ran to the window and opened it to the bright,
September sunshine. Then he hurried to the back pew. "Surely I didn't carve it that large," he
cried. "Everyone will see it. What can I do?" He took a hymnal and put it over the word. Then he
took the rest of the hymnals and placed them on the pews throughout the church. As the church
began to fill up, Bill went to the last pew and sat down.

After the service, the Building Committee gave its report. All the young people gathered
around Bill, since he would not get up. They made plans to meet Wednesday after school to begin
their part of the restoration. Bill never moved until everyone was gone from the church. When he
got up, his eyes were irresistibly drawn to the hateful word. "What am I going to do?" he wailed.

On Wednesday afternoon, Bill managed to be the first one there again. He threw his jacket
over the word and piled some newspapers on top of it. When the others arrived, they began to
work on the church. The young people had decided to paint the inside of the building. Bill worked
along with the others, keeping a wary eye on the last pew. As the weeks went by, Bill was always
the first in the church and the last to leave. The work progressed slowly but steadily. The old
"Shack" began to take on a bright, clean look.

One day when Bill arrived at the church, it was cold inside. Because he was the only person
there, he built a fire in the pot-bellied stove. The church was warm and cheery when the others
arrived. When he turned to go to his place in the last pew, someone else was sitting there. He went
slowly to the front pew and sat down. "Any minute now," he felt certain. He was almost glad that
it would be over and was willing to take whatever they decided to do to him. "I'll bet they wouldn't
be so hard on me if I were one of them," he pouted. But no one said a word.

* * * *


An Opened Heart

Although the young people had tried to be friendly to Bill and include him in their activities,
he remained withdrawn. He joined in the work at the church because he feared that someone would
discover the carving. But he scarcely spoke to the others at school. He figured that they really did
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not want to be friends and he was certainly not going to force himself on them. Because he was
aloof, the others figured that it was Bill who did not want to be friends. They soon began to leave
him alone. When they gathered in groups and talked and laughed, Bill thought they were talking
about him. Oh, how he wished to be back in the city with all of his own friends. He was really
somebody there.

One day Bill's father drove into the yard. Bill ran to meet him, hoping that his news would
be that they were moving back home. Instead, his father joyously announced that he had sold their
house. Bill felt that he was doomed.

"Dad, I have to talk to you," Bill said.

"Sure son, let's just get these bags into the house and tell your mother the wonderful news."
His father grabbed the suitcase and ran up the stairs. "There is a lot of work to be done in the
house," he said. "I guess you've had some experience with a paint brush working at the church.
You can be a big help here."

His dad and mother had a lot of things to talk about, and then there was supper to fix and
dishes to be washed. "Will I ever get to talk to him?" Bill wondered. He went to sit on the porch.
He took his scout knife from his pocket and held it in his hand. It twinkled in the light from the
house. Bill threw it into the bushes by the porch. It lay there, a gleaming accusation.

Bill's dad walked out onto the porch. "Well Bill, how do you like the farm?" he asked.
"Oh, it's OK," Bill replied. His father looked at him. He had thought that a young boy would love
the farm. "Son, do you want to talk about it?" His father reached down and picked up the knife.
Neither said a word for a long while. "Dad, I want to go home," Bill blurted.

Bill's father waited a while then said, "Bill, you are home. I realize that you left a lot of
friends behind, but we all must begin to make our life here. It is a beautiful place, and when we fix
up the house, it will be as nice as the one we left behind. You will make new friends, and we will go
to church as we did back in the city."

"But dad, I don't want to go to church, and all the kids hate me." Bill was almost ready to
cry.

"Oh!" replied his father. "Your mother tells me that you have been doing a lot of work at
the church. I understand that you have taken it upon yourself to be the first one at church so that
you can build the fire, put out the hymnals and see that everything is in order for the service. That
doesn't sound like someone who doesn't want to go to church."

"But dad," cried Bill, "I had to do those things. I have done something awful. I've done
something that can't be undone."

"Bill, there are a lot of things that can't be undone, but there is nothing that can't be
forgiven if you are truly sorry. Tell me what it is."

So there on the porch, Bill opened his heart to his father. He told him about his resentments,
his loneliness, and the awful thing he had done with his pocket knife. His father sat for a long time.
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"Bill, what you have done is wrong. I suggest we tell your mother, and then we can ask God what
to do about this." As they went into the house, Bill's dad slipped the scout knife into Bill's pocket.

The next Sunday morning, Bill and his parents went to the church together. His father
paused to have a word with Brother Woodstock, then the service began. Bill sat on the front pew
with his folks. When the service was over, Brother Woodstock told the people that Bill had
something to say. Bill was terrified. He had planned to talk to the people and had more or less
rehearsed what he wanted to say, but now the time had come; he was scared. Everyone would hate
him now.

He swallowed hard and looked at his father. His father gave him an encouraging look and
Bill began. He told what he had done in plain simple words and said he was sorry. The
congregation sat in complete silence a few minutes. Bill felt as though a weight had been lifted from
his shoulders. Paul Wilson stood up and said, "I suggest that we sand all of the pews. It'll make em
smell perty and new for Christmas. Each family could be responsible for one pew."" This idea was
received readily by everyone. As the people got up to leave, everyone in the church came up to
shake Bill's hand.


* * * * *


Home At Last

Bill's father loaded the back pew into the truck. There was the word mocking Bill. He could
not keep his eyes from looking at it. When they unloaded the pew into the barn, Bill ran to get the
sandpaper. He spent every spare moment working on the bench. His father took a plane and
planed the seat. They planed and sanded until the bench was as smooth and as blemish free as it
ever had been. The raw cedar was good to smell. Now the odor was a balm to Bill, not an
accusation. The pew was beautiful.

When they took the pew back, the church was decorated for Christmas service. The
windows sparkled, the walls gleamed in their new coat of paint, and there were pine bows and
candles all around. All the pews were completely refinished. Bill could imagine that this was how
they had looked when the ex-soldier had given them to the church over a hundred years before.
The big Bible stood open on the tree trunk pulpit, and Bill knew he was truly home.


The End