Welcome to the History Room



My grandmama loved birds. One of my favorite things at her house was the little plastic wren that lived on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. It was one of those with the hole in its back--when you filled it with water and blew into its tail, it would twitter a bubbly song. Just like her.

She was tiny, this minister through music--I passed her early, and I'm pretty small myself. A little bit round, though not fat by any means. She moved quickly, always in high heels, whether her "bedroom shoes" or Sunday best. But the best part was when you'd first get to her house and poke your head in the door. "Grandmama?" The response, from whatever part of the house she happened to be, was always her characteristic soprano squeal: hoohoohoohoohoo! Welcome to the nest.

When I got to Vineville Baptist Church on Monday morning, I had no idea where to go. The place is big and the front door isn't obvious. But I found my way in to the office, and after a few minutes of fluttering around me ("did you hear who her grandfather is?"), a nice member of the staff graciously led me down, down and around to the History Room.

There are many doors to get to the History Room. After passing through the room of mirrors, we went to the back of a larger gathering room, to the door pictured above. Big breath. We stepped through this doorway and I found myself at the bottom of a stairway, with another door to my left. Here's what I saw:





hoohoohoohoohoohoohoo!





Welcome to the History Room.