Martha Ruth, Preacher's Daughter: Her Journey Through Religion, Sex and Love. Marti Eicholz

the Lord and asked, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work for myself? Tell her to help me!”

      “Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken from her.” Martha was more practical than spiritual. She was known for her obsession with housework.

      The Biblical meaning of the name Martha is “bitter.” Ruth was the one in the Bible story who said, “Whither thou goest I will go.” No matter where? I find it interesting. Ruth was known to be virtuous, loyal, and faithful. She left her family, her gods, and her nationality and traveled to a new land she had never seen and where she knew no one.

      As the story unfolds, maybe the balance of the two names together will “work.”

      This is Martha Ruth.

      I am Martha Ruth.

      This is my story.

      Grandmother Hine took good care of me and my mother.

      Grandfather Hine stated that when he saw his first grandchild, I smiled and let him know that I was ready to get going.

      The three of us were back on the road.

      Within a few months, I was walking and starting a stir. My dad’s mother, Imogene, would visit and give my parents a breather. Grandmother Hertel encouraged me to express myself. She would read to me. We giggled together.

      Grandmother gave me license to explore my surroundings, even if that meant tossing all the contents of the drawers onto the floor. I learned early on that it was fun having Grandma Hertel around. I was experiencing my first taste of being free, the freedom to be myself completely.

      One evening, during my father’s sermon, I decided I wanted to have some fun, just like I did with Grandma. I stood up in the pew, looked around, giggled, and started acting out with some parishioners in the congregation. My father did not stop a beat with his sermon, but he came out of the pulpit and gave me a couple of whacks on the behind and continued. The fun stopped.

      I was an active child, so my parents decided to place a leather leash on my wrist to keep me close to them. This was somewhat of a problem: Whether I jerked away or my parents were pulling on the leash, my wrists would frequently pop out of joint. In adulthood, I still show signs of disjointed wrists.

      It was tough on the road from one engagement to another with services every night and very little money plus an active little one. The car and the trailer were aging, and the wear and tear on body and soul was a challenge.

      My parents made a decision to seek ordination by the Pilgrim Holiness Church. My mother’s family were members and supporters of this denomination. My father had the proper credentials, excellent academic accomplishments, experience, and solid recommendations. He passed all the tests and interviews. He became an ordained minister in good standing for the Pilgrim Holiness Church.

      ELNORA and EPSOM

      

      Martha Ruth age 2

      

      My father was appointed pastor of the twin churches of Elnora and Epsom in the southwestern part of Indiana. The topography of southern Indiana is varied and complex, with large tracts of forest, rolling fields, sharp hills, and flat valleys. Southern Indiana has a number of small, quaint, charming towns. Every county is bordered by a river. Streams and creeks are abundant. The village of Elnora sprang into existence with the completion, in 1885, of the Evansville & Indianapolis Railroad. It promised to become an important point for the buying and shipping of corn, wheat, and other farm products. There was a post office, stores, an ice house, a school, and the church. Epsom had a half-dozen dwellings, stores, a post office, and a schoolhouse. It was given its name because the water from a well in the hamlet was thought to resemble the famous Epsom salt in taste.

      Each village had a church, and they needed to share a minister. We lived in Elnora. Our house was small, with an outhouse (outside toilet), a small garage, a side garden, and train tracks that angled from the back of the house toward the side. We were in a community, settled in one place and ready to start a new way of life. I don’t remember anything about the churches or their members, but I do remember my dad taking a side job working on the railroad. Mom would pack his lunch in a black metal lunch box. Dad would not eat all of his lunch; he would save something for me. So when he returned from work, I would sit on his knee, and we would share his last bites. The trains were close to the house, and the noise frightened me to the point that I would run and hide under my dad’s desk until they passed.

      On my birthday, I received a velvet coat and hat, which I would wear on our holiday visit to my grandparents—first the Hine family, then Grandfather and Grandmother Hertel.

      Allergies developed. Summer arrived, and so did a runny nose and sneezing. This condition would come and go. Then, after a bout of runny nose and sneezing, a little cough started, then fever, followed by weeks of severe coughing fits. Diagnosis: whooping cough, a highly contagious bacterial disease. One hundred days of coughing. At times, the cough caused exhaustion, and other times I wanted to see some sun and the outdoors, and not confinement. So I opened the door, looked out, and BANG, on came a cough. I was told that I had given whooping cough to the entire neighborhood. Had I? Who really knows? But it weighed heavily on me.

      Playmates were practically nonexistent. The children next door were forbidden. They were poor and dirty, and their father was dying of cancer. I thought, so what? They needed a friend. I needed a friend. Occasionally, we met in the side yard and made mud pies, talked, and giggled.

      My mother developed a friendship with the lady across the street. They would sit in her backyard and chat. I realized my mother needed more than me and my dad, and my dad was not around much.

      There were times when the three of us were shopping, visiting, or at church, and my parents thought that I was being naughty and deserved a spanking when we got home. They would announce, “When we get you home, you are going to get a spanking.” I did not want the agony of waiting, so I would turn, flip my skirt up, bend over, and state, “Give it to me now. Let’s get this over with and move on.”

      I don’t remember the two of us, my mother and me, doing much together. In other words, I don’t remember walks, talks, reading, touching, holding, or the kinds of things I would want for my baby, who is now a toddler.

      I do remember the three of us returning home from visiting a parishioner’s home. We called these “visitations” or “making calls.” I was in the backseat of the car leaning against the car door while tying my shoelaces. My dad swung around a corner, the door flew open, and out I tumbled. Seeing them heading down the road, I started jumping up and down yelling for their return. The resident on the corner brought a wash basin with warm, soapy water out to the porch, and my mother patted my dirty, scared face, arms, and legs.

      On another visitation, the house was perched on a high hill. The view of the green valley in the distance was stunning. As I stood gazing