One of the best stories is one I was too little to remember. When I was still an only child my dad was away at a conference and my mom was sufficiently distracted, I suppose by his absence, to take me to Church, but forgot to take me home. The minister told that story on her forever.

As a very young child I noted there was a collection every week, that the money was ostensibly given to God, and that they took "the offering" into a back room. I imagined that there was a dumb waiter back there that they used to hoist it to Him. That was a better religious image than the one I had at a church we'd attend when we visited my aunt. If I acted up I was taken to the cry room which was in the basement. We could hear the Church songs above us and I thought I was in Hell.

My biggest ever gaffe in Church was due to the competitiveness of my friendship with Bud Martin and that on the specific day of my "inspiration," the order of worship was changed. Habitually, Bud and I used to race to get outside at the end of services, but he always won. This bright idea came to me on this particular Sunday that if I raced to the door at the front side of the auditorium, to the far side of the pulpit, I would have technically beaten Bud because I would be outside first. To be further assured of victory I planned my dash to coincide with the signal word "Amen" at the closing prayer that always came after the sermon. I was smugly confident of my first victory over Bud.

The minister finished his sermon. A prayer was said thereafter. At the sound of "Amen," I was off. Straight down the aisle. Post haste. Towards the front. Out the side door. Only sometime shortly after I began my sprint I realized that no one else was moving. Seems someone had taken an altar call and had asked for the prayers of the congregation. An extra prayer; not the final prayer at all. But there I was. Running full tilt. Then suddenly by myself. Outside. It seemed like an eternity until anyone else came out of the building. Bud had seen everything and thus was very deliberate about being one of the very last people to come out of the building, only to assure me that he had in fact won again since I had in fact left too soon. I could scarcely argue with him.

My next major piece of trouble in church was related to my mother filling two roles, that of mother and that of Sunday school teacher. One particular Sunday morning the girl sitting next to me pinched me. I had just turned six. I pinched her back and she squealed. My mother investigated. The girl said I had pinched her. Mom, the Teacher, told me to apologize. I told my mom, no, that I wasn't sorry. After the briefest of discussions she exercised exemplary discipline techniques and took me outside of the room. The warm air in my ear and firm fingers around my arm convinced me that hypocrisy was both safer and preferable to integrity and thus I returned to the class and apologized to said little girl. Even though I never was and still am not sorry.

I was ten years old when I discovered that my parents would let me go to the bathroom if I said I had to go even if it was during the sermon. So for several Sundays in a row I went. It was a little awkward. I always had to think about whether I should pull down my pants to sit on the toilet even though I didn't really have to go. No one could see me in the closed stall anyway but I felt obligated to carry out the charade. Eventually, I felt such a fool I just stayed in church for the whole sermon.

A hot shot Bible student when I was queried about what the answer was to a question in our workbook I remarked casually with some ennui the answer was easy. The teacher happened to have found the only question I had actually missed in the entire unit. So it gose.

If it seems most of my confessions about my Church experiences had been on the debit side of the heavenly ledger, the books on my life outside of Church were also suspect.

More rationalizations and confessions:

Credit	Debit
I did try to fix my bike and radio	even if I did break them irreparably.
I was getting exercise	even if I was flying the kite in the street.
I took the nails out of the street	that I had inexplicably put there earlier in nice little rows sticking up from the hot, soft asphalt for cars to run over.
I didn't tell anyone at school that the police had caught Melvin with my stolen bike	and I had returned the bathroom keys I had taken from all the model houses in our housing development.
I only went to Steve's house	even though I hadn't told my parents I had quit Pop Warner football.
I cleaned up all the Raleigh coupons from the field	though I kept them when Jack said his father wanted them back.
I enjoyed playing with cousin Gene	until he soaked me with the hose for squirting him with my squirt gun.
I smiled for the sixth grade class picture	though I also rolled my eyes.
I entertained my friends with great stories	until Jimmy Stamatis told one of them to our mothers.
I made it more possible for poor kids to buy good gloves.	by changing the price tags around at the store.
And imagine their surprise	when they found out I had also switched the covers around among the different flavors of Life Savers.
I came back home after my long adventure with Bill Trent	even if I was A.W.O.L.
I was retrieving the class map from the teacher next door	even if it was during the flag salute.
I was ridding the neighborhood of pesty ants	even if I was enjoying it a bit much blowing their hills up with cherry bombs.
I did draw a picture of the large bosomed art teacher, as assigned	even though I drew her, after several erasures, with no breasts.

Such a ledger suggests my problems of measuring up. Thank God for the Martins and especially Mrs. Martin. No surprise she was called "Nicey," because that's how she was. Bud's mom, she treated me as a second son. Mr. Martin bought a new Studebaker each year and purchased the first television among our friends. Bud got to wear coveralls, except for Sunday mornings, and to go barefooted, although he also had to mow their incredibly large lawn at a young age. Mr. Martin had rifles. They had the first grandfather clock I had ever seen. Bud's older sisters were even nice to me. Mrs. Martin was a great cook. It was a great family and a great place to be. Still is.

One Sunday Mrs. Martin asked me to accompany them to a picnic among a different set of friends than we ordinarily spent time with. I was eager to go, even though the event was to take place at Billy Duke's house. Billy hadn't been born fully formed. I knew better than to stare at him, but I had noticed he didn't really have any legs, he was very small, and he was of indeterminate age, older though smaller than I. I noticed no one ever tried to explain Billy, talk down to him, complain about toting him around. He was just Billy. That's how Billy was.

I didn't even mind going over to Billy's house for the pic-nic. I thought my lack of prejudice was rather big of me, but I'll admit I was glad the picnic was outside. But as it turned out the picnic was also all day -- and the bathroom was inside the house where I didn't want to go. I was all right while all I had to go was Number One. Behind the barn. But what about Number Two? I deliberated about going inside for several hours. I was concerned there might be others like Billy in-side that they hadn't told me about, or maybe that I might catch whatever it was he had, like you could catch polio back then. I didn't know of anyone else who was worried; but I was. Before I ever made up my mind on whether to go inside or not, my body made an independent decision. The load on my mind was subsequently carried around in the seat of my pants. I didn't sit down after that. I didn't eat anymore. I dreaded the car ride back in the Martin's new Studebaker. I managed to stay standing up in the back seat during the entire ride back to the Martin's house.

Back at their farmhouse there has never been a more humble supplicator nor kinder supplicant. Getting Mrs. Martin alone I explained my problem. She wasn't troubled in the least, that sort of thing just happened, she helped me with the mess, and just happened to have an extra pair of Bud's clean underwear. Nothing more need to be said or thought about the whole situation. There was something religious about that experience. Mercy me.

Chapter 5

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