Childhood Memories
All of us have unique childhood memories that become even more fragrant with the passing of the years. Most of them we've shared with our children (and for that matter with our parents) but not all. Here's one from a playful, fun loving boy's childhood in New England which I'm quite sure you'll enjoy. It's an invisible toy we invented to entertain ourselves in church on Sunday mornings.
We surprised ourselves. Worked so well we were usually unable to control our laughter. More than once we were summarily removed from the scene by our otherwise patient father (served as a deacon and was mortified by our raucous behavior). All three mischevious boys needed was a hymnal, readily available in the rack on the back of the pew, and the familiar gleam of discovery.
Procedure was simple as pie. With a mock serious worshiphful look, thumb open the solemn book at random and focus on the hymn's title. Then thumb a few pages, either left or right, and concentrate again on the title conveniently printed in bold type. If it takes longer than a minute or two before the whispered snickers become involuntary belly laughs there's something wrong with somebody's sense of humor. The joy was short lived. Dad hauled us out, gave us a stern rebuke with the promise of a world class spanking in the cellar soon as we got home, while Mom was putting the finishing touches on Sunday dinner. To illustrate, let's pretend we're in church.
The maroon hymnals were monsters, many pages and unmercifully heavy for a kid. Happened to find a similar one on the bookshelves next to the patient accessible computer I'm using temporarily which gave me the idea for this thread. Following the still familiar correct protocol from long ago, here are the titles my thumbing through the sacred pages during the past ten minutes turned up:
Page 39 "Awesome Power", Page 348 "That Last Lovely Mile", Page 349 "Ten Thousand Angels", Page 592 "Some Day The Silver Cord Will Break" Page 830 "Open My Eyes That I May See", Page 853 "When We All Get to Heaven", Page 918 "Out of My Bondage", Page 997 "O Come, All Ye Faithful", Page 998 "What Child is This?", Page 1,016 "This Little Light of Mine", Page 1,017 "Go Tell It On The Mountain", Page 1020 "The Simple Old Story", Page 1.028 "O Holy Night".
Now take a deep breath. Kick off your shoes. Freshen up your adult beverage or soft drink. Pretend you're 9-12 years old. Read each hymn title, with feeling, again for the first time in your entire life... adding the final three words
🙂 😉 😏 😵 🙄 😀 😀 😀
Originally posted by Grampy BobbySome day the silver cord will break under the sheets. O come, all ye faithful ten thousand angels out of my bondage...
[b]Childhood Memories
All of us have unique childhood memories that become even more fragrant with the passing of the years. Most of them we've shared with our children (and for that matter with our parents) but not all. Here's one from a playful, fun loving boy's childhood in New England which I'm quite sure you'll enjoy. It's an invisible toy eets.[/hidden]
🙂 😉 😏 😵 🙄 😀 😀 😀[/b]
...nine months later...
"What child is this?"
Once, and only once, we smuggled a roll of cap gun caps into that same Christopher Wren designed New England village church. A few quick thumbnail scratches instantly filled the sanctuary with fresh cordite. Entire congregation turned in unison to see what had happened in the vicinity of the second and third pews from the back, left aisle, where our family always sat. All they saw was yours truly following his father's firm grip on the scruff of his neck out the door, evicted and in for it again before Sunday dinner.
😀 <------------------------------------------------------- 😞 😞 😞 😞😞 😞 😞 😞 😞 😞 😞 😞 😞
Originally posted by Great Big SteesFinally, at the age of 12, in Liverpool, being able to achieve 200m in 24.7 seconds carrying a TV, after years of nurturing and training; oh the delight on my father's face! 😀
Finally, at the age of 8, being able to swim the distance required by my parents to allow me to take the sailboat or canoe or rowboat out on my own. Oh the freedom.
-m.
- Joined
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Originally posted by mikelomI don't remember seeing you on the podium at the "very" Special Olympics. Apparently you weren't one of the three best there eh? Never mind as long as you did your best and had fun and met some new friends.
Finally, at the age of 12, in Liverpool, being able to achieve 200m in 24.7 seconds carrying a TV, after years of nurturing and training; oh the delight on my father's face! 😀
-m.
Being fortunate enough to have been picked for the Jaycees Little League Team, coached by former major leaguer Chick Delfino. A true brush with greatness at the time! We won the area championship two years in a row, before I moved on to a less spectacular Babe Ruth League team coached by all around nice guy and owner of the best donut shoppe in town, Sonny Remillard. To this day I owe my first base footwork and vacuum cleaner defensive skills to Coach Delfino. Owe knowing my way around the pitcher's mound to Coach Remillard. Oor team's best game of the season was a loss to the league's top ranked team by the close score of 2 to 0... in which I pitched a two hitter (one a late inning home run over the right field wall) in our losing cause.
Little League 😏 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------> Babe Ruth League 😞
Originally posted by Grampy BobbyThe wonderful posture my father would have in church as he slept through the sermon, only to awaken during the first verse of " Just as I am".
Once, and only once, we smuggled a roll of cap gun caps into that same Christopher Wren designed New England village church. A few quick thumbnail scratches instantly filled the sanctuary with fresh cordite. Entire congregation turned in unison to see what had happened in the vicinity of the second and third pews from the back, left aisle, where our fam ...[text shortened]... <------------------------------------------------------- 😞 😞 😞 😞😞 😞 😞 😞 😞 😞 😞 😞 😞
Originally posted by kiki46Our pastor had a sermon policy, if he couldn't say it in 60 minutes or less, he would ramble on forever. And he usually did.
The wonderful posture my father would have in church as he slept through the sermon, only to awaken during the first verse of " Just as I am".
Originally posted by ChessPraxisSome do nothing more in the way of preparation than to reach into the old sermon barrel late Saturday afternoon, pull out a ten minute homily, dust it off, read it on Sunday morning, stand on the church steps greeting parishoners, coo with the infants and call it a week. Sixty minutes plus or ten minutes, you tell me which is worse. In my opinion, both fraudulent ministeries suck.
Our pastor had a sermon policy, if he couldn't say it in 60 minutes or less, he would ramble on forever. And he usually did.
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