Christmas 1945

We should have been in Argentina by then; instead, we were stranded in New York City, awaiting our ship, the José Menéndez.­­­

Saturday, September 1, the crates, built and filled over the summer months, were shipped to New York. Mother and Dad also went ahead while my grandparents kept me, as they had on previous occasions. Grandma recorded each time in her diary, “I kept Rita” adding little notes such as “Surely are enjoying the baby. She is so sweet.” Or, on another day, “Rita was no trouble at all.”

Tuesday, September 4, my grandparents and I traveled in the old Ford on the turnpike to Dunnellen, New Jersey, and spent the night with Aunt Joyce’s in-laws. The next morning they took us by train and ferry into the city. Grandma’s record states, “Met Solons at 10 at appointed place. Saw some of NYC. Had my first subway ride and ate in an automat.”

I was not the only one having new experiences, but at sixteen-months-old these were not as memorable as for my fifty-seven-year'old grandparent. I do not remember, nor even know, what an “automat” was. Wikipedia tells me it was commonly referred to as “a wall . . . a fast'food restaurant where simple foods and drinks are served by coin-operated and bill-operated vending machines.” “At one time there were forty Horn & Hardart automats in New York City alone.” When in the 1950’s, inserting too many nickels became impractical and drive-through restaurants became popular, the automat declined and eventually closed.

Schrocks and Hoyts

September 7, a Friday, was the first big farewell. Grandma wrote: “We all went into New York City on the 8 o’clock train. Met Schrocks . . . and went to the pier to see the boat got to go on the Jose Menendez, cabins small . . . Said goodbye after eating in a rushed automat.”

It was not to be, however. Visa applications for both families had been mailed off at the same time, but ours had not cleared. Our trunks had been loaded on the ship, but customs officials could not allow us to leave the country. The ship did not sail right away so the two missionary couples spent the weekend together sight-seeing.

In Times Square they met professors from their alma mater who led them on a tour of the Rockefeller Center and Radio City and to the top of the R.C.A. building for a view of the big city. “It’s all very nice,” Mother wrote later, “but the sooner we get away from here the better. Too much noise and filth.”

“Saturday night we got on a double deck bus and rode out to Fosdick’s church [Riverside Church] and also saw Columbia University which is right next door to it. The people in the bus were telling us about the church. They said it’s practically a city in itself. Has about five cafeterias, bowling alleys, club rooms and everything. All the first floor seats of the church are reserved for members only.”

Monday, September 10, Mother wrote to her folks, “Here we are still at the Institute . . . Some things have been happening around here but not what we’d like to see happen.”

In his note to Mom and Pop, his in-laws, Dad explained, “. . . you left us about Friday afternoon. (Can I ever forget that hectic scramble for a few morsels of food?) I called the consul that afternoon asking him if he had received any information from Argentina. He had a cable from our Superintendent stating that our visas would be sent to Chicago Friday the 7^th. We called Chicago and they hadn’t received anything. We called again today and still no visas.”

The José Menéndez was delayed because “In order to carry passengers to and from U.S. they must have certain safety devices which this boat does not have.” To complicate matters, these were not available in the US.

A cargo ship was allowed to carry twelve passengers. However, this time she was scheduled to carry one hundred thirty four! Now, on her first time to dock in an American port, she must comply with US safety regulations. Perhaps there was still hope of the visas arriving in time.
            Tuesday Dad learned that the José Menéndez was finally set to sail the next day, September 12^th, at 12:00. “We haven’t our visas, but our travel agent seems to have something up her sleeve. I don’t know whether we’ll sail or not, but it looks like it. The Lord is able.”

             The next day our belongings were unloaded, we were left behind and wondered what next. My little family was stranded, in limbo, for over three months. I wonder now what they must have felt. Did they ever doubt their calling?

             Seventeen days later, a telegram from the South American Consul announced the arrival of the missing documents. It was time to reschedule the voyage.

The archived letters and diaries are mostly silent about the initial weeks. One telling entry in Grandma’s 5-year diary portrays my father as I always knew him, very industrious, not wasting a moment, occupying with his hands. “Solon is busy making a high chair.” This tells me we spent a few days at my grandparents in Western Pennsylvania.

A telegram arrived December 13: “the José Menéndez will sail the 18^th from pier 29.” Grandma spent the next day baking cookies, making lunches, preparing for our departure on the Pennsylvania Railroad. Winter had set in. Grandpa and Grandma did not go with us this time. They drove us to the train in Pittsburg. Saturday’s entry says, “They were fortunate to get an upper and lower in same compartment. The station master was good to us and let us go on train with Solon & Kathryn. I carried Rita. It is hard to say goodbye.”

             Only now, as a grandmother myself, I begin to comprehend the significance of these last words and the extent of the sacrifice involved in letting loved ones go so far away and for such a long time. An earlier entry reveals this very struggle, “This was the last prayer service Kathryn and Sam are with us for a long time.”

Hoyts with another missionary staying at the Institute

Christmas Day, 1945, was a lonely and quiet one for all. Our ship did not sail till the next day. Grandma wrote on the 26^th of the one bright moment that lifted her spirit, “Called Kathryn this forenoon and heard Rita say so plainly—‘Hi Grandma.’ They were sailing this afternoon. Was good to hear all their voices again.”

             December 26, 1945, the José Menéndez set out on her very last voyage and my first time at sea.

Seminary

“Why did you and Dad decide to attend Grace Seminary?” I asked Mother. In her brief and direct manner, she said, “Sam and Lowell [Dad and his closest brother] went to Bryan College together. They had forty dollars between them. After college they wanted to go on to seminary. Their brother Herman was one of the teachers at Grace, so that’s where they went."

 “Why did they want to go on to seminary?” I asked.

 “They wanted to be pastors,” she said, “Is there anything else you want to know?” Mother never was one for phone conversations.

 “What made you decide to be missionaries and why Argentina?” I asked.

 “One day Sam went to Herm’s, he was in his garden planting beans. In the conversation he [Herman] mentioned that the Argentine mission field had so few missionaries and was lacking good leaders. Not long after, we met the Dowdy’s who were on furlough. So, we took a year of Spanish.”

Early memories of our life in Argentina include the Dowdy family with their three rowdy boys. Old photographs and one 8 mm film prove that we played together as children.

          More than sixty years later, Mother and Dad once again lived near the Seminary where they trained for the ministry. I traveled the hour and a half north as often as possible to visit them and learn more about their lives. Daddy passed away in 2013, Mother was still active and alert. I enjoyed spending the night in her cute little apartment, sharing breakfast and devotions together, reading old letters and hearing new stories or insights from their past.

When I rounded the curve on Wooster Road in Winona Lake, I drove past familiar sights: McClain Hall with its white spire piercing the sky; Alpha Residence Hall and Dining Commons, brand new when I moved in, January of 1964; and Morgan Library with memories of when the student body formed a line and passed the library tomes from their old home to the new shelves.

My mind goes back in time before the buildings, before the college, before the seminary and I wonder why the program that began in Akron, Ohio, in 1937, moved two years later to north central Indiana. I know that Uncle Herman was among the decision makers, involved in leadership of the school from its inception. I read that the seminary moved to Winona Lake, Indiana, at the invitation of the Winona Lake Bible Conference, which at the time was known as “The World’s Largest Bible Conference.”

I recognized that Grace Seminary played a huge role in the direction our lives have taken, but I wanted to know more. I kept searching. An article surfaced in a photo album. Mother, who never did like to write, had written a brief version of her life story for the denominational magazine. 

Mother’s Story

Early in life we were taught the importance of missionary work. Many missionaries visited our home. My parents always wanted to go to the mission field. When they were married, they had Christ for Africa engraved inside their wedding rings. After their graduation from Fort Wayne Bible Institute. . . they applied to go to Africa, but for some reason were refused. Although he couldn’t go, my father always prayed that the Lord would give him a missionary family—and four of the six children have been or are still missionaries.

I was later told the reason my grandparents had to give up their dream was that Grandpa could not tolerate quinine, the one known antidote for malaria, so prevalent in Africa.

As I read, I realized that my place in life was determined long before any seminary journey. God answered the prayers of a young man with a heart for missions but whose path had been redirected. His disappointment led to a new divine appointment—a long pastorate in a small-town church with a missionary outreach into several continents, not only Africa.

Mother’s Life Story Continues:

Like few other preachers’ kids, I had the privilege of going through all twelve years of school in the same town. After graduating from high school, I went to Dayton, Tennessee, to attend Bryan University. The Lord again was preparing me for missionary service, as Bryan at the time was a very rustic place ….

During my sophomore year in college, I was placed on a gospel team with two Hoyt boys and Lola Goehring, a girl from my hometown. We got along so well singing together that Lola became Mrs. Lowell Hoyt and I became Mrs. Solon Hoyt. While working [during the summer] at beautiful Greenwood Hills Bible Conference near Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, Solon and I were engaged ….

The summer of their fiftieth wedding anniversary, my parents wanted to revisit Greenwood Hills so I drove them there. We took pictures of all the places dear to them.

“Here’s the Chatter Box [ice cream and snack shop], where he gave me my engagement ring,” said Mother. “This is the bench we sat on, here between the two trees. It was evening, getting dark, we were reading the Bible when we heard something.”

“I thought it was a dog, so I kicked it,” said Dad.

“It was a skunk and it sprayed my white dress,” said Mother. “But I got the stain out.”

 The article goes on:

One year later we were married. We decided to go directly to Grace Seminary and finish the year of college during the summers. This my husband did, but due to economic and family reasons, I had to be content with the three years of college and the two-year Christian Education diploma from Grace Seminary.

During those war years, educational prerequisites were altered for students headed to the ministry. This allowed Dad to complete his college degree while pursuing theological studies.

“Seminary years were very happy, but difficult,” explained Mother.  We were involved in much study, church duties, and extra work to help make ends meet. On top of that, we were trying to make preparations to leave for the mission field. It was during our second year in school that we felt called to Argentina. God used the influence of Rev. Paul Dowdy and my brother-in-law, Dr. Herman Hoyt. We studied Spanish with Mr. Dowdy that year and were approved by the Foreign Missionary Society Board toward the end of the year.

Graduation March 1945

The title of Mother’s article sums it up— “Prepared and Directed.” As I read, my mind’s eye zoomed further and further out, enabling me to see the larger picture and understand that God had His hand on my grandparents, their ancestors, their children, and me long before I was born.

“Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you, before you were born, I set you apart.  (Jeremiah 1:5)”

The Golden Dawn

I love you, hums the April breeze
I love you, echo the hills
I love you, the golden dawn agrees. . .

Songwriter: Cole Porter

The Golden Dawn

May 18, 1944

The day I was born the world was still at war, yet love was in the air, Bing Crosby's “I Love You” at the top of the music charts. And so it has been throughout my life, no matter where or what, I have felt loved.

I was born at 6:45 on a Thursday evening in Warsaw, Indiana, in the McDonald Hospital owned by Dr. J. R. Baum. The total cost for delivery and five-day stay was $57.50.

Grandma Hirschy wrote in her diary on May 19^th: “. . . got a telegram from Sam this morning stating Rita Dorene arrived last night, 7 lbs.” 

A few days later Grandma traveled from Evans City, Pennsylvania, to help when Mother got out of the hospital. An entry in her five-year diary records, “Sam carried Kathryn out to the car and into their new home. I held the baby.” Was that so he wouldn't have to hold me, perhaps? Mother claims that Dad was afraid of holding the baby.

Later, in a letter addressed to my grandfather Grandma wrote, “My dear companion, Kathryn got up to eat dinner with us in the kitchen this noon but got feeling fainty so Sam carried her back to bed and she ate there. . .”

I would never have known about Mother's initial frailty had not Grandmother Hirschy kept such good records, and had these letter and diaries not been carefully archived by thoughtful family members. I remember Mother's later pregnancies: she was strong and healthy and worked very hard almost till the last minute. Even in her nineties she rarely admitted to a moment of weakness.

Grandpa Hirschy wrote in the family letter, carbon-copied and mailed to the six children scattered abroad, “Mother got home from Huntington a week ago today. She says the baby is a Hoyt, she has dark hair and is a very intelligent child, already understands when you talk to her. Hoyt and Hirschy must make a wonderful combination!!!!!” (Yes, there were that many exclamation marks.) This quotation makes me smile every time I read it and shows me that I was welcomed into a very loving family.

Thinking about my grandparents' laborious efforts elicits gratitude for another “birth” in 1944. Scientists at Harvard University, with some funding from IBM, constructed the first automatic, general-purpose computer. The advances in technology make this task of writing my stories a thousand times easier than the labor-intensive communication maintained by my grandparents with their children overseas. What a work of love that must have been!

Though my entry into the world was a happy one, there was great turmoil at the time; the world was in the throes of a terrible war. The now famous young diarist, Anne Frank, and her family were discovered while in hiding and died along with millions of Jews in Nazi concentration camps.

My own uncle, mother's younger brother Philip Hirschy, was wounded in the war in Europe and went missing in action for weeks. Those were terrifying times. There was a shortage of manpower; women went to work and Rosie the Riveter, the ubiquitous poster woman of the day, transformed the image of femininity forever. Major annual events were canceled. The Indianapolis 500 was not held that year nor the U.S. Open Golf Tournament.

Those were very busy times for Dad and Mother. They were both studying at Grace Seminary, in Winona Lake, Indiana, at the time of my arrival. Dad, very tan from working on the railroad, was also pastoring a small Grace Brethren church in Huntington, Indiana. Mother had a part-time cleaning job. For most people, life moved on even while World War II was wrapping up. For me life was dawning.

Announcement

 For almost two decades now, I have worked up to this moment.

When  my teaching career was nearing an end, I began to think about writing. I enrolled in an evening class and was greatly inspired. Other courses followed, many writers' conferences, and years of practice honing the skills. 

My interest in family history and repeated efforts to gather stories earned me the title of "family historian." More importantly, I became the custodian of family archival treasures--letters, photos, books, articles, memorabilia.

A strong compulsion to share these findings led me to begin with my life story. 

It has taken me a long time to claim, "I am a writer." And even longer, to decide how, where, and when to publish my book. 

The time has come. The plan is to publish on this blog page, one chapter on the 1st and 15th of every month. Beginning in March, look for both an English and a Spanish version. 

I am grateful to my old friend, Julio Reta, who is partnering with me to make available a Spanish Argentine-nuanced translation.

Come back Monday, March 1, 2021!