He mentioned that I had not been to see his father in a few days, which is the truth, and which is no coincidence either. I thought he might be at his father’s only a few days. It has been one of the great irritations of my life, seeing the two of them together. I hoped to stay away till he left, but clearly he is not about to do that.
In the old days I used to come into the kitchen and look around in the pantry and the icebox, and generally I’d find a pot full of soup or stew or a casserole of some kind, which I would warm up or not depending on my mood. If I didn’t find anything, I’d eat cold baked beans and fried-egg sandwiches — which, by the way, I enjoyed. I’d find pie or biscuits on the table sometimes. When I was at the church or up in my study, one of the women would just step in the door and leave dinner there for me and go away, and then another day she’d come back and take her pan and her tea towels or whatever and go away. I’d find jam and pickles and smoked fish. Once I found liver pills. It was a strange life, with its own pleasures.
Then, when your mother and I got married, it was a little hard for people to learn that they couldn’t just come and go anymore. They suspected she was not a cook, I believe, and in fact she was not, so they kept coming in the door with their casseroles until I realized it upset her, and then I spoke with them about it. I found her crying in the pantry one evening. Someone had come in and changed the pull cord on the light and put new paper down on the shelves. It was kindly intended, but not considerate, I understand that.
I mention this because it seemed so strange to me to be sitting there with the two of you and young Boughton, of all people. Because not so many years ago I was sitting at that table in the dark eating cold meat loaf from the pan it came in, listening to the radio, when old Boughton let himself in the door and sat down at the table and said, “Don’t put the light on.” So I turned the radio off and we sat there together and talked and prayed, about John Ames Boughton, for John Ames Boughton.
But that story may be more than you need to know, more than I ought to tell you. If things have come right, what is the point? There’s nothing very remarkable in the story, in fact it is very commonplace. Which is not an extenuation by any means. So often people tell me about some wickedness they’ve been up to, or they’ve suffered from, and I think, Oh, that again! I’ve heard of churches in the South that oblige people to make a public confession of their graver sins to the whole congregation. I think sometimes there might be an advantage in making people aware how worn and stale these old transgressions are. It might take some of the shine off them, for those who are tempted. But I have no evidence to suggest it has that effect. Of course there are special and extenuating circumstances. They were fairly special in young Boughton’s case and by no means extenuating, if I am any judge. Which I am not, or ought not to be, according to Scripture.
Transgression. That is legalism. There is never just one transgression. There is a wound in the flesh of human life that scars when it heals and often enough seems never to heal at all. Avoid transgression. How’s that for advice.
I have to decide what to tell your mother. I know she is wondering. He’s very nice to her, and to you. And to me. No “Papa” this evening, thank goodness. He’s so respectful I feel like telling him I’m not the oldest man in the world yet. Well, I know I’m touchy about some things. I have to try to be fair with him.
You look at him as if he were Charles Lindbergh. He keeps calling you little brother, and you love that.
I hope there’s some special providence in his turning up just when I have so many other things to deal with, because he is a considerable disruption when peace would have been especially appreciated.
I’m not complaining. Or I ought not to be.
I’ve been thinking about my funeral sermon, which I plan to write to save old Boughton the trouble. I can do a pretty good imitation of his style. He’ll get a laugh out of that.
Young Boughton came by again this morning, with some apples and plums from their trees. He and Glory have things looking pretty nice over there. They’ve done a lot of work. I’m trying to be a little more cordial to him than I have been. He sort of steps back and smiles a little, and looks at me as though he’s thinking, “Today we’re cordial! What can account for that?” And he looks me right in the face, as though he wants me to know he knows it is a performance and he’s amused by it. I suppose an attempt is a performance, in some sense. But what else can I do? Most people will go along with you in these situations, whatever their private thoughts might be. I hesitate to call it devilment, but it certainly does make me uncomfortable, and I’m fairly
