Hilda Q. Walton

Erlton Community Baptist Church. (The Sunday-School addition is on the other side.) (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)


—Now that 14 blogs have been categorized “Hilda Q. Walton” it’s time to explain Faire Hilda.
As I’ve said many times, Hilda was my next-door neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent during my early childhood.
Hilda and my hyper-religious father were instrumental bringing Erlton Community Baptist Church into being. Erlton in south Jersey was a suburb of Philadelphia where I lived as a child.
I’m sure others were involved. A dilapidated old chapel was rehabbed in the late ‘40s. In 1948 or ’49 that building was moved to a new location in Erlton. A major highway was temporarily closed, then the chapel raised on blocking so a basement could be built. The sanctuary was extended. Three side-windows became five.
When finished a cornerstone was laid by the church’s young pastor my father heartily approved. For a couple years my father was a deacon. But that pastor moved on in 1956 or ’57. He was replaced by a pastor my father didn’t like.
My father left in a rage. No one was listening to him.
The sticking-point was that new pastor wanted to end Sunday evening services, which few attended. We started attending evening services at a far-away church. My sister and I felt out-of-it — me scared.
That only lasted a few months. My father found a new job near Wilmington DE. We moved, my father researching a church holy enough for him.
That was Immanuel Baptist Church in downtown Wilmington. That was while I was still around. After I graduated college, they moved to a new church when Immanuel’s pastor began speaking-in-tongues. (By then I was out on my own.)
Erlton Community Baptist Church survives. Before we moved Mrs. Walton convinced church-members a Sunday-School addition was needed: a gigantic two-story brick edifice that could pass as a school.
It opened in 1955 or ’56, early enough for Mrs. Walton to serenade we youngsters about the evils of demon alcohol. —That it would rot our brains, which I guess it does if you guzzle enough.
Hilda was married to Stephen Walton, Sr., a hot-shot engineer with RCA (Radio Corporation of America). He smoked Lucky-Strike cigarettes. Perhaps he was playing around, which might explain why Hilda so hated men. How she managed two legitimate sons I’ll never know.
My parents made me easy pickings for Hilda. They continually badmouthed me as rebellious because I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
So Faire Hilda convinced me that like all men I was disgusting.
I remember dressing up as Elvis Presley for Halloween. Hilda angrily told me Elvis was “the bane of western civilization.” (How can I forget that, readers?)
In 1992 I rode motorcycle to south Jersey to reconnect my childhood. I was living in Rochester (NY) by then. Hilda, age 80, was still at 627 Jefferson in Erlton, next to our old house at 625. Her husband was long-gone.
Mrs. Walton drove me to Erlton Community Baptist Church, where she was still a member, but mad at the youngsters who no longer let her run things.
She still had a key to her beloved Sunday-School addition, but she poo-pooed everything we saw. We accessed a dusty alcove where my Down syndrome brother’s dedication was still on the wall. I doubt anyone knows who “Timmy” is.
Hilda marked me for life. Constant-readers know that. Every time I befriend a female, which is fairly often, Hilda spins in her grave. 14,000 rpm. Harness her and my parents and they could power south FL.

• “Q” stands for “Quincy,” although I’m told it also stands for “Q-lip” — something to do with The Three Stooges.