Old Rugged Cross

Across the street from my old man’s First
Presbyterian Church in Johnstown PA, there
was a Pentacostal Holiness Church. We
called them Holy Rollers and could hear
their enthusiasm booming as we went to
Sunday School.

On the other corner:a massive Catholic church,
the congregation of which would litter their steps
with cigarette butts after service, which me
and a buddy would collect to smoke in a
vacant lot nearby and once set it on fire lighting
up.

Our manse was next to the nunnery. We’d steal
the grapes off their vines. Sunday afternoons I’d
have to go to the projects with Dad, where he
conducted services–and then again in the evening,
at the down town shelter.

Once a month: a hymn-sing service in the evening.
I’d raise my hand for The Old Rugged Cross but
my old man would overlook me, not wanting to
play favorites,

Potluck suppers were special–and Strawberry
Festivals in the summer.

In 1950 we moved to Connecticut, where Dad was
called to start-up a new church. After he retired, he
served another 17 years at 4 different rural churches
in Minnesota and Wisconsin, ending up in Sauk
Rapids, freezing his butt off but loving the
weather and the people.