Scotch-Irish-L ArchivesArchiver > Scotch-Irish > 1998-02 > 0886747152
From: John Giacoletti <>
Subject: Preacher Story
Date: Fri, 6 Feb 1998 01:39:12 -0500
Are there any preachers on the list???:-)) This story ends with a one line
sermon which is about the length of my theological attention factor.
I've been fighting since I grew up in Cowansville where just about everyone
was Scots-Irish or married to someone who was and most every one was
Presbyterian. I can't remember if the preacher then, about 1948, was Dr.
Weiss or Dr. Ferguson but he had an honorary Doctor of Philosopy Degree in
Theology from Edinburgh and we were very proud of him.
My mother had 6 sisters and 4 brothers so I had a lot of cousins. We would
fight over who would pitch and who would catch. Who got to sit at the
table with the grownups and who had to sit with the rest of the kids. Who
got to say grace. I couldn't tell if winning was better or losing. We
even fought at Sunday School. Over parts in plays and who would sing in
the youth choir. We fought over crayons and who would get to color what.
They would take pictures out of the coloring books of Jesus and the Feeding
of the Multitudes and such and pass them around the table and each kid got
to color a part of the picture. The girls always wanted to give me the
white crayon or something dumb like that so I'd have to color a sheep or
cloud or something that was not pretty or much of a challenge.
So I decided to skip it one Sunday and snuck out in the break between
Sunday School and Church. I was heading for the creek to hunt crawfish and
had to go on the dirt road past the cemetery, down a hill by a fenced
pasture and then on to the creek. I wasn't paying much attention to what
was ahead because I was checking to see that nobody was following me or
that I had not been seen.
I ran right into the barbed wire pasture fence, tore my pants and got three
or four big puncture wounds that bled like crazy. I don't know where the
wound scars went but I haven't seen them since I was thirty. Any way, I was
crying and bawling and scared to the dickens about all the blood and trying
to figure out how I could lie my way out of this one, all this jumble of
feeling going on at the same time.
I saw the preacher coming to me on the run, yelling, John, look up, John,
look up, I guess because I was about to faint and pass out. He was jumping
bushes and ditches real good and his gown was blowing up like a big kilt
until he got to me and gathered me in.
It was a hard time to look that preacher in the face and I believe he had a
sermon just for me after he found out that I was not dieing from loss of
blood. Typical Scotsman, always trying to teach a lesson, and this is what
The running out is easy lad, it's the crawling back that's hard and sad.