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  • Writer's pictureClarke Wallace

going back: A Bit

My wife Rosanne and I took a drive on the weekend. We

ended up in Birchcliffe on Kingston Road, an eastern

extension of Toronto.

I found myself staring at the Anglican Church of Saint

Nicholas. Did it back memories? You bet.

It was my father’s church when I was growing up. I

was known as the ‘preacher’s kid’ which meant I’d have

to prove myself to those guys around me that I wasn’t a wimp.

I was eight or so when my dad, Rev. Nathaniel Clarke

Wallace, had me standing at the main doors on Sunday

mornings – I’ll swear the same doors as seen below

– where I

handed out prayer books to the parishioners arriving for the service.

I’d later sing in the choir until my voice went from high

to low. After that I couldn’t hold a tune. Or a note. I still can’t.

Writer’s comment: I’m the third generation with the same

name. Our son Nathaniel Clarke (the fourth) is stuck with it.

Though I think he’s proud of it. As I am.



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