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.
Comments