More Stories

December 2, 1954

Dear Mr. Bovee:

I am very happy to inform you that at the meeting of the Executive Committee of the Board of Directors of the American Unitarian Association held on December 1, 1954 it was voted to approve the application and to receive into membership in the Association the Unitarian Fellowship of Springfield, Missouri. The terms of this membership are set up by the Department of Extension and Church Maintenance. We are very pleased that this action has been taken and that your Fellowship now becomes one of the more than one hundred and thirty such groups scattered throughout the United States and its neighboring countries.

It is our sincere hope that your Fellowship will grow in membership and strength.

Our cordial greetings to you. We wish you the finest success in all your endeavors.

Faithfully yours,
Walter Donald Kring

You might want to revisit the first two pieces on the first Stories page. They reported about the split in 1966 and the reunification in 1970. I just found an article by newsletter editor Marjorie Hill, written in June 1967, about what happened in between.

At the Annual Congregational Meeting, April 30, a committee of the Fellowship was named to explore the possibilities of a merger with the Church group. A meeting was held with Rev. Russell Lockwood, executive secretary SWUU conference, acting as moderator. At a second meeting the Church committee proposed and the Fellowship committee accepted that a nominating committee from each group agree on a slate of executive board members for the proposed merger organization. These nominating committees met and agreed on a slate of eight--four from each group. On May 31 the Chairman of the Church's merger committee informed the Fellowship committee that the proposed slate had been rejected by the Church executive board.

Mr. Dennis Jackson stated in his letter: "Under the existing circumstances therefore, and with considerable regret, we feel that the cause of liberal religion in our city can perhaps best be served by the preservation of the two separate organizational structures as at present, and that continued discussion can serve no useful purpose at this time."

Mr. Franz Daniel, Chairman of the Fellowship merger committee, concluded: "This statement by the Chairman of the Church's merger committee seems to close the door to any further negotiation."

Here's something fun from the June 1967 newsletter, edited by Marjorie Hill.

DEARLY BELOVED FELLOWSHIPPERS!

This notice constitutes the "final posting of the banns" of the approaching marriage of Lucy Lipe and Orville Wright, and it is also your invitation to that celebration. The date: WEDNESDAY: JUNE 14. The time: 7:00 PM. The Place: UU FELLOWSHIP HOUSE. The reception: H.C. BARNETT HOME.

In the style of all our other activities, this is a "do-it-youself" affair with Franz Daniel presiding, service compiled by the bride and groom, music by Joanna Ryan and singing Unitarians, flowers by Marjorie Hill and her roving band of thieves, reception by the UU Women's Group, grass-cutting by Willard Schaefer, weeding by the Hill-Hunt team, petunia preservation by good neighbor "Mrs. Sprinkler" next door, curtain-sewing by Kathy Howard, painting by diverse dabblers (the gold-colored children are Hutchinsons!), color selection by Hopkins, marble entry et al. by foresight of Rosen, heavy cleaning by professional group of gremlins, linens and reception pretties by Norma Johnson and borrowers, pre-recption drudgery by Louise Gold and Leota Barnett, post-reception drudgery by ???, punch by bride, cake by Plaza Bakery, sandwiches by Genny Hunt, ice and other needs by Martis, white cookies and serving by Hutchinsons, and Lydia Broadstreet also has a prospective contribution (thereby hangs a tale). The groom's contribution? His name, love, and ring!

Messrs. Gold, Schaefer, and Hunt declare: "If we could just have a wedding once a month, cleansing and renovations would never present any problem!"

You have to see this wedding to believe it!  YOUALL COME!

Charter member Lois Bovee wrote the following in April 1994:

Marj Hill had asked me some time ago to contribute some memory of the beginning of this church to add to the 40th anniversary celebration. I tried to think of something that hadn't been said...

Her latest letter, enclosing Rolland Comstock's lyric "Memory of Forty Years Ago" and his salute to the prime movers in those early days touched me deeply. (And I recalled a remark of Leota's about Ronnie, "The Baptists raised him good, but we made him better!") Ronnie [Rolland] said, "Vic Bovee is the true father of this church." And Marj wrote, "I will never forget the day that you and Vic came to my door looking for a Unitarian." As Vic's wife and widow, who was also present at the creation, I do agree with Ronnie. But how odd! How does a religious skeptic, like Vic, an agnostic, manage to father a church? And then go schlepping up to a stranger's door looking for a congregation? Were we so zealous to advance the cause of Unitarianism? Well, not exactly.

We had discovered the Unitarians in Sioux City, Iowa, the year before we moved to Springfield. Our eldest child, Barbara, had been attending the nearby Presbyterian Sunday School, and Vic was telling a visiting friend about a parents' day we had attended at Barbara's class. The teacher was showing what the children had learned by asking them questions. Barbara was asked about what Jesus did to heal a certain I'll man. She was supposed to say that he ordered the devils out of him and into some nearby pigs and the pigs jumped over a cliff. Barbara looked stricken, didn't answer, and when we got home, she said, "I knew what I was supposed to say, and it's all right with the other kids, we say lots of funny stuff, but I couldn't say anything so silly in front of all the parents!" The visitor suggested we take her to the Unitarian church. We did, and she, and we, were pleased.

Then we moved to Springfield. I was 38, six months pregnant with my third child. I hurriedly filled out school registration forms for my other two children, and I drew a line at the one asking Religion. It would show that I had not missed it. This simple act brought groups of concerned people to our door, intent on either saving our souls or getting our business. We were cordial; we knew they meant well. But we were unprepared for the aggressive religious climate. Barbara, in junior hi, managed OK, but David, in second grade, was required to take his turn reading the Bible in an opening ceremony and lead the class in prayer. Worst of all, in school on Monday morning, his teacher asked everyone who had been to church or Sunday School the day before to stand up. Often he was the only one remaining seated.

When John Brigham, the Sioux City Unitarian Minister stopped for a visit, he suggested we look for other Unitarians in Springfield, and maybe we could find enough to start a Fellowship and a little Sunday School. The Fellowship office might have some names. Apparently he telephoned the Boston headquarters because a short list of names and a letter from Monroe Husbands arrived before we had decided whether we wanted to do this. Most of the names were psychiatrists who had been at the Medical Center but were no longer there. One who was about to leave gave us the name of Ken Chinburg, and Ken was happy to meet with us if we found others.

Finally, there was one name left...

Read the conclusion in the next article.

Finally, there was one name left. Marjorie Hill. There was an address but no phone. Should we write a letter? Should we show up at her door? Should we forget the whole thing? So far, we had just located Ken and Jean Chinberg.

One day we drove by the house, drove by again and stopped. We had a difficult time getting ourselves out of the car and going to the door like a couple of Jehovahs Witnesses, bent on spreading our religion. She was probably an old lady who would take one look at us, say "I don't want any!"  and slam the door. She wasn't and she didn't. We met the incomparable Marj Hill, a true parent of this church.

It was Marj who knew some other Unitarians. Still, we were so few in number that it was tempting to just meet in each other's living rooms and talk. Our very first, get-acquainted meeting was at the Y cafeteria. Attending were the Chinbergs, the Kieferndorfs, the Bovees, Marj, and I think one other.

Ronnie's account of our early problems focuses on the broad diversity of the tiny group. We also faced strong opposition from some of the other churches. We were reviled from their pulpits; Vic received hate mail and garbage was thrown on our lawn. His was the name that was out front the most.

Looking back, I marvel that the Fellowship survived that first year. One of the reasons it did was that Vic and Marj met often during her coffee break at a little Cafe across the street from where she worked. I have always thought that they brought to the group an ideal combination of talent and personality that dealt with whatever occurred. Vic felt that the group should develop an organization with a clear structure as a first priority. He insisted that we meet in a public place, at a prescheduled time, with a program prepared. That he possessed a certain dignity, was liked and respected by his co-workers at Springfield Newspapers and by his neighbors, surely helped cool the witch hunters looking for communists.

And Marj's skill at bringing together the diverse group Ronnie describes, easing over rough spots, finding a bit of common ground, all of this plus a delightful natural with, unified the group. Marj's friend, Fred and Midge Kieferndorf, were vital to the development of intelligent programs, lively discussions, and the planning and[ teaching in the Sunday School. Barbara Rosen and Midge got the Sunday School underway and Barbara and her husband Max let classes meet in their lovely rambling old house.

And so finally, David could stand up with the others on Monday morning [when asked if they had attended church the previous day]. Except...by this time he was in the 4th grade and that teacher didn't ask.

Lois Bovee
April 25, 1994

I found Rolland (Ronnie) Comstock's "The Littlest Unitarian: A Memory of Forty Years Ago" in the archives! Lois Bovee mentioned him in the previous article. Rolland's memory piece is dated March 12, 1994; it was likely written in honor of First UU's 40th anniversary.

Note: Copyright restrictions prevent me from sharing a photo of the young Rolland Comstock, but you can see the photo by going to the digital archive of the Springfield-Greene County Library.

The story:

Let me tell you a story. It cannot be a bedtime story. It cannot be a coming of age story because it has nothing to do with puberty or sex. I will borrow from Kate Chopin and call it the story of an awakening. It's title: The Littlest Unitarian.

Once upon a time, a missionary came from Boston to Springfield to conduct a revival meeting. The time was 7:00 p.m. on April 16, the Friday know as "good," in 1954. The meeting cannot really be called a "revival" because that implies there was something to revive, to resurrect. It was more like a creation. The "true" church had come to Springfield.

I was 17  years old and a senior in Springfield's one high school for white students. Integration would not come for another year. Try as I can, I am unable to call from my storage of memory how I learned about the meeting and why I felt compelled to attend. I do know that I gave up a date with a girl named Joan (no matter, she turned out to be a Seventh Day Adventist) and the last showing of the James Mason/Marlon Brando version of Julius Caesar. For over a year I had owned--and had as a very small source of income--a used Bookshop. As a matter of fact the bookshop phone number was the first listing for the Fellowship in Springfield. The average was one call every other month. It is reasonable to assume that encouragement was given by one of a small group of intellectuals (I learned the word early on, but then spent 40 years working toward a definition) who were regulars in the after school hours of the shop and who also carefully fed the curiosity of the soon-to-lapse Baptist boy from the north side of Springfield.

The combination of Munroe Husbands, the missionary from Boston, and Vic Bovee, the true father of the Springfield Fellowship, could not be denied. The logic of their statements, the reason, good sense, and a litany of synonymous words were overwhelming. This Baptist boy heard the call and rushed to the alter.

I have clear memories of the events of the period of the Fellowship's gestation' however, they do run together forming, as I now look backward, a multicolored, multilayered collage, but without being uniform in line or form. Such is the nature of Unitarianism.

The adoption of a statement of belief (a creed against a creed, if you will) was a major obstacle on the morning and evening of the first day. With Vic Bovee's strong, gentle hand, a consensus was eventually reached, but only after many meals of YWCA cafeteria food. Peace was short-lived since a point of grammar next attracted the attention of the combatants.

(Remember, this was the 50's, once described as a "handkerchief soaked in chloroform on the mind and spirit," breeding complacency, likemindedness, and conformity. A Unitarian would have no part of that.)

to be continued...

An immediate threat to the fledgling group came not from without, but from within. A militant minority pushed a political agenda. Marks (not Karl, but Allen) would have molded the Fellowship in the shape of his namesake. A political role was sponsored by others: Bill Anderson, an escapee from Nazi Germany, and Ernest Brooks, who had known a day of glory in a WPA musician's project. The price of deflecting this assault was in membership and badly needed seed money.

(Remember, this was the prime time of Senator Joseph McCarthy's witch hunts. A communist surely lurked under every bed. Unitarians, be warned! The advent of television and the propensity of the witch hunters for the ludicrous eventually saved the country by making them a source of ridicule rather than fear.)

The early Fellowship had an inevitable, but necessary collection of characters: one  believed that the intellectual world could only be approached via the dance; one believed that the psychiatrist Carl Jung was, in fact, God; one was an arch  bore who would camp for hours on the doorsteps of other members (particularly those of the female persuasion); one thought that the way to growth to to effect a merger with the Baha'i, a small group of watchers awaiting the arrival of a spaceship bearing their Martian counterparts; one endlessly explained to all hearers that he had discovered scientific evidence that the pronounced fact of Noah and the Ark was a scientific impossibility and, further, that the Fellowship should adopt a position on the plight of the Indians who had traveled the Trail of Tears; one was short on housekeeping skills but long on compassion; one died early on and my bent toward the funerary oration came to full bloom; one, although not a member of the group at the time, taught the dread theory of evolution (excuse me, "revolution") right here in River City and was nearly burned at the stake as had been Michael Servetes, whose name was adopted for the guild within the Fellowship which was short on theology and long on strong drink; one believed in proselytizing by way of the marriage couch.

Once started, this could go on until late in the evening, but that is not what I wanted to talk about. I'm here under false colors. What I want to do is reminisce about my voluntary leaving of my biological parents and entering into foster care, a foster care that quickly led to full adoption. Food, clothing and shelter, well mixed with Love, were amply provided in my former state; but, unintentionally, and without a will to do harm, the pill of intellectual death was mixed in the cauldron. Foster care brought--but only with hard work on my part and not as a gift--an intellectual stimulation that seemed without end. I hope it is still present even after the passage of 40 years.

coming up -- tributes to the First UU members who cared for him

I grabbed onto, and held tightly, many mothers, many fathers, and a genealogy which was full-blown. My new mother very quickly changed my name to "you precocious little bastard" and, for good or for ill, never cut the apron strings from me as long as she lived. Her gift was an anchor of stability and the encouragement of a blind faith in my intellectual capacity. This remained true even when evidence was not always forthcoming. I was with her on the day she died. I called her Leota.

Another mother led me to see the beauty of the language of music. This language went straight for the heart and the soul. Soul? Can I use that word? I mean the "essence of being" (that spiritual or incorporeal thing that saves us from being a cheap Japanese computer); no, I really mean the soul. I called her Blanche.

A father acted toward me like a draconian-schoolmaster. The reading list was endless, the tests hard and my progress so, so slow. I resisted his efforts at the time, but I am now very, very grateful. Combinations of beautiful words, whether in the form of poetry or prose, or both, also go to the heart, to the essence, to the soul. I was warmed by them, and I continue to be warmed. Thirty-two years of practicing the illiterate profession of the law did not take that away. I called him Ernest.

Another mother, by her example, not her words for such was not her way, showed me how to look for things that were beautiful, how to look at things and find beauty . Her teaching was always by example.  She taught me compassion, she taught me respect for all living things, and she taught me how to open the secret door of the heart and make a nesting place for love. The lesson was hard, and, some 40 years later, I admit that I have not been the best of students. Her example told me that these things are all born in, and spring out from, yes, the heart, but also from the soul, the essence. I look even now for her lesson and, like a child, I seek her approval, even today. I called her Marge.

A big sister totally failed in her valiant efforts to deflate what in other religions would have been assigned to the work of the devil: my ego and stone tendency toward pomposity. A very small part of me--very small--is sorry for having failed her. I called her Lee.

I believe that art is a human effort to imitate, supplement, alter or counteract, the work of nature. That may be true. It comes also from the imagination, from the mind. It probably comes from the soul, and is a part of the essence of the creator. This is too broad for my purpose. I have in mind painting, drawing, sculpture and the graphic arts. A father taught me something of this without ever saying a single word. I too remained silent, but watched and watched his creation very carefully and remembered. I'm sure he was unaware that I adopted his work as a standard against which I would always view the work of other artists. The "filthy lucre" of the law now permits me to even own some of his work, some part of his essence. Some called him Fritz, but I called him Fred. At times this father changed physical form and became a big brother to the same purpose. I then called him Tom.

This description of my new parents can never be complete because of the slippery nature of human memory. I have simply forgotten many of my parents, but that does not lessen their contribution.

It is my real purpose--40th anniversary and all that aside--to come to this place and call it a manse, the house of my parents, my ancestral home. It's Thanksgiving: the turkey is unstuffed, the pies are on the sideboard. I pause in memory and in gratitude for my parents who are no longer with us in their human form, a form which I now consider to be nearly perfect. I pause in gratitude to May parents who are at the table. You have a son, a precocious little bastard, whom you took to the edge of the virgin forest. I hope I have done you some honor as I went the rest of the way alone. Thank you.

I never met Rolland Comstock, but I recognize some of the people he gave tribute to in the previous article. I found the following life history online. His life sounds just as interesting as the character he made himself out to be in his First UU 40th anniversary piece.

MEMORIAL RESOLUTION OF THE SPRINGFIELD METROPOLITAN BAR ASSOCIATION IN RECOGNITION OF ROLLAND L. COMSTOCK 

BE IT RESOLVED, that the Springfield Metropolitan Bar Association in a Memorial Service on the 16th Day of November, 2009, expresses its profound and deep sorrow upon the death of one of its longtime members, Rolland L. Comstock. 

Rolland was born November 9, 1936, to Howard Comstock, a fireman, and Nellie Clark Comstock, a housewife. Rolland died in his home on July 3, 2007, at the age of 70. 

At the age of 16 and a high school senior, Rolland rented the upstairs of a shoe store for $15 a month and opened his own second-hand bookstore. He kept the bookstore open while attending Drury College where he received bachelor degrees in Political Science and French. After teaching French for a year in Mountain Grove, MO, Rolland pursued his Master’s Degree in British History at the University of Kansas City and studied abroad at Oxford University in England, but the practice of law called to him and he received his Juris Doctorate in 1964. Rolland opened his law office in Springfield on Commercial Street in 1964. 

That same year he was elected as a House member to the Missouri Legislature where he served for one term, fighting for the rights of the elderly. Shortly thereafter, Rolland moved his office from Commercial Street to 306 West Court Street, Springfield, Missouri, where he continued to practice law until the day of his death. 

Notable highlights in his forty-plus years as a barrister included his successful representation of an English bulldog who was the sole beneficiary to his owner’s fortune, and his work for hundreds of “wards of the state” through the Greene County Public Administrator’s Office. 

Rolland was an avid book collector, reaching worldwide fame in his search for one more book to add to his collection which exceeded 50,000 items. Book shops and collectors in Chicago, San Francisco, New York and Washington, D.C., knew of Rolland and his awe-inspiring collection. After making friends with several authors, he became characters in their books having such a charismatic personality that he left an indelible impression on them. 

Rolland is survived by five children, having a close relationship with Faith G. Stocker and Stephen H. Comstock, both of Springfield. Rolland loved the law and considered his clients as his extended family. His long-time assistant, Becky Frakes, started working for him at 18 years of age and worked by his side for 33 years until his death. Surrounded by the wolf pack he called pets, Rolland worked away in his library at acquiring more books and continuing the practice of law helping the elderly. Rolland made a name for himself in the area of probate and estate planning continuing his days of the legislature fighting for the rights of the elderly. Rolland was a credit to the legal profession, and a credit to Springfield.

To the family of Rolland Comstock: I first met "Ronnie" as he was called sometimes many years ago when I was attending Southwest Missouri State University. He was a friend of my aunt, Marjorie Hill, and was very kind to her in her later years.  I remember him being a lot of fun and was delighted to see him again the last few years before my aunt passed, August 2003.  My mother and I did get to see his library a few years ago. It was very impressive.  He was truly "one of a kind". 

Margaret Blackstone

Margaret Blackstone

Aug 06, 2007