Who the heck said that?

The little Town Church in the vale.
Many years ago and back in the early 1950s our family regularly attended a small fundamentalist church in East L A on Olympic Boulevard just across the street from the Baptist church. Our parents insisted we siblings must attend church without any excuse or resistance.
Next-door to our little church in L A was a funeral home which included two ambulances parked in its driveway facing the street. Ready to be dispatched to any medical event. Being next door to the funeral home our church was the lucky beneficiary of many paper hand fans and conveniently placed in the hymnal racks on the backs of the pews. Fans made of card stock and a wooden handle. Very handy because our little church had no air conditioning. No ceiling fans. Only open windows. So those fans with the funeral home name and phone number printed on them came in very handy. My mother used them often so I would lean in to benefit from the swooshing fan as well. Oh so comforting for an eight-year old.
Now sitting atop the funeral home was a very large two-way dispatch antenna for the ambulances. Not only did the ambulances carry ill people to the hospital but took post mortem folks to the coroner’s facility and then back to the funeral home for viewing and burial.
However the ambulances were not the only receivers of the two-way radio dispatches. Inside our little church and often in mid-sermon on many Sundays; dispatches came through our church’s PA speaker system. “Larry, where in the hell are you. Do you copy?” And it would continue, “You’ve got a DOA on McDonald Street to haul to the coroner’s office. Gets your ass moving.” And so that happened several time since those early radio dispatches. Not sure if the funeral home ever corrected the two-way dispatches into our auditorium but our preacher man later asked the funeral director to instruct the dispatcher to clean up his language until we could work out a resolution to the two-way radio bleed over into the churches PA speaker system. I’m sure my mother would liked to have gone over and washed out the dispatcher’s mouth with Ivory soap just as she did with me on occasion.

Published by OkieMan

I come from a family who migrated from the parched red dirt Plaines of southern rural Oklahoma. Migrating to blue collar working class community of East Los Angeles. There is where I was born. I am Mr. Writermelon. I can only write what my grammar and spell checker allows. I am neither profound nor profane. Boy howdy! Send comment to: Mr.writermelon@gmail.com

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