I grew up in a parsonage in Rochester NY. When it snowed on a Saturday, my brother and I were scrambled to help clear the church sidewalks. Other local men helped, but Steve and I were expected to remain on duty until the job was done.
We knew that double desserts at dinner would likely be our reward, but still this task was daunting. The sidewalks were tough enough, and we knew we’d never get the parking lot done, even if we stayed out there all night. But we never had to, because eventually Farmer Jennyjohn would arrive on his tractor to plow out the lot.
We were always thrilled to see him, although he acknowledged our waves and cheers only with Falstaffian grunts. This is a true man of God, we thought, who loves the church as we do, to come out in the blizzard every time to bail us out. We knew he did not actually attend the church, but that did not dim our admiration of him.
Recently my mother happened to mention the contract the church had with Farmer Jennyjohn for his plowing service. Had I thought much about this as an adult, I might have intuited the existence of such a reasonable arrangement. But I hadn’t, and now Farmer Jennyjohn takes his place in my mind as just another workingman making a buck.
Come to think of it, for a church-loving man, he was awfully profane when we trespassed on his property to play army.

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