Things went south for dad’s pastoral ministry in New Jersey and the U-Hall was backing up to the parsonage for parts unknown. I didn’t know why and I didn’t ask. We were moving to Addison, New York where dad would serve the Addison / Woodhull parish while commuting to seminary. New house, new school, new friends, oh my. 

Addison was right on the mainline Erie Lackawanna. Trains that passed nearby in New Jersey passed right behind dad’s church in Addison. It seemed that every Sunday during the Lord’s Prayer, the quiet of a church sanctuary got a dose of the blaring horn and earthquake that rocked the building as a passing freight passed mere feet from the back door. 

That back door. I recall Mom, dad, and me meeting the district superintendent (and future mentor of mine), Vernon Lee, at the church for dad’s interview with the Pastor Parish Relations Committee. The back door hung by one hinge. Vern told us that he’d fix that door if only he brought along a screwdriver. He would have, too.  First impressions matter.

Addison was a hard drinking, hard scrabble town. One Sunday, dad arrived at the church early for worship when he found a suspected arsonist passed out drunk in one of the Sunday school rooms. He had started 17 fires around the building. Thankfully, none of them amounted to anything other than a huge mess. Probably spared his life, too. 

The prospect of burning down a church appeared to me to be positively evil. All was not right with the world, even my simple 9th grade mind could see the evidence. 

The pool today was quiet and refreshing. Laps went quickly as my mind dwelt on those days spent in Addison. It would be more than a week before I can return since a family trip is scheduled to begin tomorrow morning at the Rochester airport. It felt great to glide through the water, my eyes inches from the bottom, feeling like flying.

School was filled with bullies and fist de cuffs. I gravitated towards a group of kids from church who tried to fly beneath the radar of the carnivores. Even still, we witnessed teachers being assaulted and kids being dragged into the bathrooms to serve as punching bags for the alpha males. 

My English teacher, Mr. U, was a member of the parish. He also drank in school. We all knew he had a pint in his lower desk drawer. Down the hall was the shop class, where Mr. N was king. He was short, fat, and the first non-white person I had ever met. He was always angry at us kids. No one dared cross him. 

In shop class, our period was coming to an end. I cleaned my bench and stood next to it waiting for the class bell. A kerfuffle rose behind me, and Mr. N stormed in our direction. He took two kids from behind me and myself out into the hall. In his hands was his self-made, notorious “Board of Education”. He made us line up in the hall with our hands on the wall. He summoned Mr. U to act as a witness, I suppose, and laid into our asses with rage and furry. I cried, it hurt so much. I cried because I knew I had done nothing deserving of corporal punishment. Injustice laid bare was, and is painful. 

When I met Dad after school, he was outraged. Despite my pleading, he marched down to the school to talk with the principle. My life, already difficult, was about to get really complicated. I don’t know what became of the yelling behind closed doors, but I knew that Mr. U and Mr. N gave me a wide birth for the rest of the school year.

Dad had my back. A father’s love provided protection, stood up to injustice, and helped me navigate through the growing complexities of life. 

Evil. Real. And dangerous.

Injustice. Systemic. Insidious. 

A Father’s love was able to overcome both. Lesson learned.