Well, it all began on a first date in I think 1959. We went to Mario’s Restaurant in St. Matthews with her twin sister and date. She wore a dark green dress with black stripes. The lights were low but I could see her face through the flickering candle lights. I thought then—and still do—she was the prettiest girl I had ever seen. I did not believe she would go out with me.
Later—much later I sat with her in my old green dodge and pulled out this little box that held the slither of a diamond. "Will you marry me?” I asked. And she said: “I will if you make me three promises: I don’t have to pray in public, I don’t have to lead the WMU and I never have to teach Sunday School.” I nodded. Yes. Yes.
So January 28, 1961 we got married in Louisville with 8” inches of snow on the ground. I don’t remember being happier.
That summer I was called to a small church in Philpot, Kentucky. My first Sunday we got trapped behind a convoy in Fort
Knox traveling to Owensboro, Kentucky. I thought we would never get there. I kept moaning: “We’ll never make it.” And she said what she would say a thousand times: “We will. It’s going to be all right.”
The church with the tiny steeple stood on alternate Highway 54. Which ought to tell you something. We had a bell with a rope hanging down when you came in it rang when it was time for church. We had an outhouse at back. When it rained the water would come all the way up to the church’s top steps. So this city boy and this city girl began our ministry.
That first Sunday the church had what they called: Opening Assembly. Everybody gathered in the sanctuary. An old woman turned and looked at my wife and said: “Are you going to be President of the WMU?” “I don’t think so" And the woman snarled, “Well, the last one did.” Welcome to Philpot.
This 21-year-old-music major got a job as a third grade teacher. No training. No education courses. Just a job. Where the boys were mean and the girls were placid and chaos ensued. She came home and said, “I put cursive on the board and they didn’t know what that was.” There were a whole lot of tears that first year.
Our first child was born there. And I came into her room the Nurse handed me a
curly red-headed girl . My wife roused up and said: “Let me see your ears.” Yep. They looked just like mine.
We moved to Southside, Virginia after three years in Kentucky. And one snowy January night our second child was born: a red-headed boy. Guess what? My wife said: “Let
me see his ears.” And she said: “Oh no.” We kept him ears and all.
I broke my promise in Virginia when she became President of the WMU. And women was heard to say: “They had a WMU.” The church survived.
After four years we moved to Georgetown, Kentucky. A small experimental church which became my first Camelot. Great church. In the middle of the Hippie time, Woodstock and wild barefoot college kids. We bought our first house there. A little white house with green shutters.
While there someone told us about a fine seven-foot grand piano that had been refurbished. After borrowing on our insurance we bought that piano for a thousand dollars. We still have it.
Clemson came calling after six years in Georgetown. My son was so impressed by the nailed-down seats and a balcony where he would sail bulletin airplanes off into the downstairs.
Gayle taught piano lessons and piano lessons. How do you teach 40 kids a week, feed your family and keep the house from falling apart? Not a McDonald's in sight. While there we sent our red-headed girl off to University of Louisville. Later we would send our second red-head off to the Art Institute in Chicago. Those were hard, hard days.
Rattling around on our house with no kids was hard, too. And so we moved to a church in Memphis. Gayle loved the city, taught mostly wealthy Jewish kids and taught in the Preparatory Music Department at Rhodes College. Work there was difficult—mostly me . We still have friends there. So we left after three years on a cold December Sunday without a place to go.I was 55 years old and scared. And Gayle said the same thing she had said in that first church. “Oh, we are going to make it. You’re good and you’ll get another church.” I did.
We moved to a small inner-city church in Birmingham about a mile from where four little girls lost their lives in a church bombing. We were there 8 years smack dab in the middle of the AIDS crisis. Gayle and a friend took meals on wheels to very sick men with AIDS. Thdy loved her. Theat church stretched us those 8 years. Hard and great.
The church threw a retirement party for us in 2000. And people came from every church we had ever served. Friends and members spoke that night. And the wife of the College President said:’ Gayle Lovette has always been my role model.” And a young woman Pastor said: “When I grow up I want to be just like Gayle.”
Weeks later we took a trip to Paris with friends. And looking out our apartment window one night in Paris I asked her: “Did you ever think we would make out to Paris?” And she said, “Oh yes, I knew we would.”
Those retirement years were filled with 8 Interim churches. And finally Gayle said, “OK, let’s go home. We have lived in condos, apartments, old Parsonages and I want to go home." We did.
In 2011 We moved back to Clemson. That seven-foot grand is still in our living room. She joined the Choir. Water aerobics. Still plays her piano every day. Loves, loves her two red-heads and our two granddaughters.
Judy Collins sings plaintivly: “Who knows where the time goes?” And we wonder too.
One time, speaking of a friend William Barclay said: “If they cut me open they would find your name in big letters on my heart.” That's how I feel about the girl I married.
Enough said. Thanks for the memories. My my, the memories keep coming as we celebrate our 63rd anniversary.
--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette. blogspot.com
