3. More About Papa

In the early autumn of 1881 our family unexpectedly bundled up its somewhat harried lares and penates, and moved into the northern rim of Kentucky.

Papa had begun to feel the weight of his anxieties and increasing cares. Mama was unhappy and begging to have a home of her own. Not only was he the superintendent of the county schools, requiring long drives in all weathers, but he had been preaching every Sunday at the Lutheran Church in town. Many old clients, whose legal affairs he had handled, still came to him with their problems, and his wide acquaintance throughout the county brought urgent pleas from long-time friends to conduct the funeral services for their loved ones. It must have been a heavy load.

The funeral business was mounting. It was on such an errand, one hot July morning, that Papa was driving past the Morrison homestead a few miles to the north. The old farmer had been ailing for a long time. Papa saw the three husky, lumpish Morrison sons sitting in a row on the front porch. He drew up and called, “Good morning, boys. How is your father feeling today?”

“Guess!” replied Bill, the eldest, after some delay.

“Better, I hope,” said Papa.

“Nope,” crowed Bill, for it was the wrong guess. “He’s dead!”

With that, the trio ambled down to the picket fence and arrangements were made for Papa to “preach the funeral” on Friday, which he did… When the committal service had been read at the grave, and the neighbors were busily shoveling, Bill Morrison handed the officiating clergyman a half-dollar, and said, “Thanks, Reverend. Mebby we’ll be a-callin’ on yuh again sometime”—for their maw was poorly.

One day in the late summer of 1881 a fine old Kentuckian named Benjamin Strickland came to visit some relatives who had recently moved to Columbia City. On Sunday they brought him to the Lutheran Church. Next morning he called on Papa and told him that a group of three country churches, a few miles apart, and to one of which he belonged, badly needed a resident minister. They hadn’t had one, he said, for a long time now. It seemed like the preachers all wanted to live in big towns.

There was a comfortable, well-furnished parsonage, he went on, not too far from a friendly little town, and only twelve miles south of Cincinnati; but out in the country. If a man had a mind to, he could almost make his living from the four fertile acres belonging to the place. One acre was in blue grass. There was a good barn, a high-wired chicken run, and a pigpen at the far end of the pasture field.

The latest parson to live in the rambling old house, with the huge brick chimney and wide verandahs, had amused himself by tapping the sugar maples in a grove just across the road. The climate was equable. The neighbors were quiet and lived at peace with one another. True, the minister’s salary would not be large, but his expenses would be light.

Papa listened.